HELP! I'm going potty. And no it's not just because The Simpsons isn't on the telly at the moment because of coverage of some teeny tiny little tennis tournament. If only it were that simple.

The problem is that I'm going potty because my son isn't. At the grand old age of two and a half, he has decided he is not a baby anymore and that nappies are unbecoming on someone of his mature years.

So now we have our daily pants choosing ritual in which the Munchkin sticks his head under his dad's dressing gown to see what colour pants he has chosen before tootling off to his own room to choose a matching pair.

Unfortunately, however, by the time pater returns from his day at the type face, father and son are more often than not no longer co-ordinated in the pants department. They may both have started the day in lovely lemon grundies but come bathtime one of them has usually broken ranks and can be found trampolining on the bed shouting "I'm a frog" while attempting to show passing motorists his navy blue knickers with their rather snazzy football motif.

I don't know about you, but I just don't think this is the sort of behaviour you expect from a respected local journalist.

But seriously though folks, or as serious as you can be when discussing your partner's pants with a bunch of strangers, the problem isn't really anything to do with mismatched undergarments. It is more to do with the number of undergarments, mismatched or otherwise, that the Munchkin gets through in a day.

On a good day he wears three pairs of pants, while on a bad day he gets through so many that he is actually back in his original matching pair, which, if you are reading this mum, have of course been washed, dried, starched and pressed, by the time his dad bikes it back home in the evening.

And it's not just because he is something of a Brooklyn Beckhamesque toddler fashionista who insists on changing his outfit three times a day to keep up with the latest trends. It is partly that because we do of course live in a consumer-driven world where our children's first word is more likely to be "Prada" than "Dada", but it is mostly because he adamantly refuses to avail himself of the many and varied toilet facilities on offer.

In other words, he won't pee on his potty. He will pee in the garden, in his playroom, on the sofa and on his parents, but not on his potty.

I've tried bribery ("pee on your potty and you'll get a prize"), blackmail ("pee on your potty or I'll turn you in for stealing that Thomas the Tank Engine from Debenhams") and even strong-arm tactics ("pee on your potty or Big Bow Tie Bear gets it") but nothing can convince him to park his bum on the plastic.

I know he will do it when he is good and ready and that, as the old saying goes, you can take a toddler to a potty but you can't make him pee, but I'm just not sure my soft furnishings can last that long.

That is why I am sending out this very personal plea to you, my fellow parents and expert potty trainers, to let me in on the secret of your success. Send your answers on a postcard (or even a piece of loo paper, I'm not proud) to the usual address. But do it quick please before I go completely round the U-bend.