There are two types of people in this world. Power poopers and those who poop for hours. I fall into the former category and my boyfriend, in the latter.
I’m seriously in and out. 5 minutes is at the top end of the scale for me. Even with my phone. Joe? I’ll be lucky if I see him 30 minutes after he closes the door. Here’s the miraculous bit…somehow, his absence isn’t noticed. Ever. Usually around the 15 minute mark I’ll start dropping subtle hints to Luke to try and guide him in the right direction. “Maybe daddy’s seen your red poos car?” “Go show daddy your cool leaf!” “Daddy’s in the toilet and has been for ages, go wah (scare) him while I hide here in this cupboard and shovel chocolate chips down my gullet”.
I swear on all that is sacred that Joe and Luke have conspired against me. The minute my butt hits the seat, the door opens. In pops a little head. I ask him nicely to leave. “But I want to see your poos? Pleeeeeeeease?” How can you deny a request like that?
Lastly, you could set your clock by Joe’s pooping. Babe, watch Luke while I cook tea? Needs to poop. Can you bath Luke? Needs to poop. I give up.