The diaper wars

It's been going on for months now: a bitter battle that often leaves me weary and my toddler tear-stained.

I don't know when it started, exactly. As an infant, Nolan was happy to be on the change table with the roving mobile and the stacks of diaper cream and wipes, odds and ends to fiddle with.

But lately, something's changed, and I'm sure it's part of the toddler power struggle, but for the love of Pete, I am so tired of the war. I wave my white flag, vehemently, but Nolan pays no attention. He would rather walk around in his filthy diapers and lie on top of Jordi, on the bed, anywhere but on the floor or the change table.

If I use my rumble voice, and tell him very sternly to lie down, he runs away. If I pin him down and grimly proceed with the job, white legs flail and moaning commences and poop usually ends up in completely inappropriate places, namely on the bridge of my nose and we shall never talk about that again.

Anyway, I'm at a loss. I refuse to battle Nolan every single time he needs his pants changed. Perhaps it's time to let the toilet training commence.