WE were so smug. More smug than the cat who had got the cream. More smug than the cat who had got a mouse covered in cream. More smug... well, you get the idea.

Let's just say that the Cheshire cat would have looked pensive and ill-at-ease in our presence. We really were that smug. Now, however, we just smell of wee.

Potty training part deux is no more fun than it was the first time round. I swore I would be more chilled this time, taking the accidents in my stride and not running round the house with a potty in one hand and a loo roll in the other while constantly shouting "do you want a wee?" at a small person in new knickers.

And I was, for about a week. Then the little devil lulled me into a false sense of security. She asked to go for a wee whenever she needed to, happily sat on the loo, washed her hands - heck, she even managed to remember to flush the loo, which is more than her older brother does.

As a result, her father and I became Mr and Mrs Super Smug. "Potty training?" we'd say, whether anyone asked us or not. "Yeah, been there, done that, got the pee-shirt. Sorted in a week. No problem."

Then, just as our jammy smiles were beginning to get on our own nerves, the two-year-old pulled the rug out from under us... before ostentatiously weeing on it.

She seems to have decided that loos are for losers. She will happily leave a puddle - or worse - on the floor, the sofa and in the bath, much to the delight of her brother who was floundering about at the tap end at the time. But she refuses point blank to use any of the more traditional facilities on offer.

"We have three loos and a Winnie the Pooh potty," I found myself yodelling at her on the third day of her strike, shortly after she'd tinkled down the front of my favourite sweater. "Why on earth are you pooing in dad's chair?"

There was, of course, no answer. There is never an answer when it comes to kids. So, I'm relying on you, relatively sane adults that you are, to come to my rescue. How do you stop potty training driving you potty?

I DON'T know what I've done to upset them, but the lovely, cuddly people at CBeebies have turned on me. After years of loyal service, plonking my kids down in front of the child-friendly BBC channel for at least an hour a day, the shiny, happy programmers have decided I am no longer welcome. I am persona non grata. Even the Teletubbies hate me.

Every time I switch over from ABC1 (endless reruns of Ellen) or E4 (endless reruns of Friends in between clips of Michael Barrymore weeping) I am confronted by my worst nightmare. No, they haven't given Timmy Mallet his own show. It's worse than that. Much, much worse.

Giant, hairy tarantulas have taken over the airwaves. On a single day last week, I had to run screaming into the kitchen during The Shiny Show, Come Outside and Boogie Beebies because the screen was suddenly filled with spiders the size of buses (bendy buses, not hopper shoppers).

That's three separate programmes and three separate sets of repulsive arachnids. For me, that's three too many.

The kids loved it of course. Not only did they get to see great big spiders crawling all over the television screen, they also got to see their mum cowering behind the kitchen table with a cat basket on her head (I don't trust myself to keep my eyes shut).

It was perfect programming for them, but since when has CBeebies been all about kids? If the BBC isn't careful, it will lose its large adult audience. I will definitely rip up my Charlie & Lola fan club membership if the spider onslaught continues. I might even ditch my Roly Mo bobble hat and matching mittens.

The BBC should regard this as an official warning.

Updated: 10:59 Monday, January 16, 2006