After a teacher scolded middle-class mothers for abandoning their children… The shame of not being toilet-trained when I was sent to school has destroyed my life

My parents didn’t potty train me – and even though I’m a political researcher with a hard-won PhD, my proudest moment wasn’t getting my PhD, but something much more prosaic.

Believe it or not, it was when my now six-year-old daughter Mabel mastered potty training before she turned two.

Nothing made me happier than seeing her climb onto her potty, with a so-called flush, when she was just over a year old, and use it whenever she felt the need to.

We simply took off her diaper, put the potty in the middle of the room and let her continue. She got the hang of it in a few days, although she continued to wear diapers at night for another year.

Why the rush, since most parents wait until their children turn two before even thinking about toilet training?

For me it was imperative that Mabel was fully potty trained before she started school last year.

You might think that it is nothing special for a school-age child to be independent in this way, but it increasingly seems that this is not the case. Working mothers are responsible for the increasing number of children wearing nappies at school, according to Tory MP Miriam Cates.

It’s certainly an inflammatory topic. Earlier this month, writer Shona Sibary confessed in Femail Magazine that she had sent her four children to school “with a spare pair of pants in their backpacks, feeling guilty that none of them were really prepared for this next big step in their lives.” .

More recently, a teacher wrote about how much time she spent changing the diapers and underwear of five- and six-year-old children, and that, contrary to assumptions, these students come from middle-class families.

But we have yet to hear from the victims of this fierce debate: the children who face the humiliation of wetting themselves in class – and the far-reaching consequences of this kind of humiliation.

This is something I know all too much about, because I was one of those kids. Now 36, thirty years ago I was that little girl who wet myself in class at least two to three times a week until I reached the ripe old age of six.

Why? Very simple: my parents had not trained me to be toilet trained. They had a very relaxed approach and believed in not pushing my younger sister and me to achieve milestones. My diapers were removed at some point and my sister and I had to walk around the house pretty much without pants.

It wasn’t until the end of freshman year that I stopped wetting myself – and that was purely due to the patience and encouragement of one particular teacher.

But by then I had been living in fear of being reprimanded or humiliated for my “accidents” for two years.

The teaching assistant was less patient and once lost her temper, calling me a ‘disgusting girl’ – an insult that has been burned into my memory. These experiences left me with a deep sense of self-doubt that has haunted me my entire life. It was only through three years of therapy that I finally let go of the burden of shame and constant feelings of inadequacy.

My younger sister and I did not come from a poor family, but had a privileged upbringing.

We lived in a six-bedroom detached house with an outdoor swimming pool, thanks to our father, who was a human resources director for NHS England and owned a property development company. My mother helped my father run his business and the family’s real estate portfolio.

My parents read to me, but they didn’t teach me how to count or how to potty train. They believed I would do everything on my own time.

When I was four, my father was diagnosed with cancer and my life changed dramatically. He died within a year, on my fifth birthday. It was devastating for the entire family.

Mum now had to earn a living and was struggling with school, so while Dad was ill we were moved from a nursery school to the local primary school. The large classes came as a shock, but the teachers were nice.

However, my first two years were marred by the frequent accidents that I also experienced at daycare. There was a toilet attached to the classroom, but I hadn’t been taught about the physical cues, so I had no idea I had to pee.

Instead, I suddenly realized I was wet. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. Sometimes I would hide in the toilet room and cry my heart out. Luckily the kids in my class never said anything. Yet everyone knew – especially when I had to put on my gym kit when I didn’t have spare clothes.

Even now, I feel good when I think of the kind teacher who so comforted me at that time. I would get quite upset and blame myself. She told me not to worry, but to keep trying. They called my mother to talk about my progress, but it was the teacher’s efforts that made the real difference.

When I was six, I finally got a handle on the toilet, but the damage to my self-esteem had already been done.

I did well at school and went on to study politics at the University of Exeter. I completed my PhD in political communications and elections in my early twenties. However, not long afterwards I had a breakdown while working in Parliament as a researcher for an MP.

By then I hated myself because I believed I wasn’t as successful as I should have been. I had a demanding boss and that didn’t help. I stopped sleeping, convinced I had to work instead. After I had been ill for a week and was awake almost all the time, my then boyfriend took me to the doctor, who prescribed sleeping tablets.

Later I saw a therapist, who made the connection between the breakdown and urination at school. She often returned to that period in my life when I had not had enough parental support; the goal was to heal my ‘inner child’.

I have since tried to talk to Mom about those years, but she ends the conversation as quickly as possible.

I don’t blame her; she grew up in a farming family in the countryside where feelings were never discussed. But I would like to ask her why she chose to raise me this way.

Today I live with Mabel in Cornwall, where I combine academic research with teaching yoga and pilates. My mother lives 45 minutes away and is a hands-on grandparent.

Ironically, she was very involved in Mabel’s toilet training. She didn’t say much, but I guess this was her way of making up for it.

All these years I am still so grateful to the teacher who took pity on me. But it shouldn’t have been her responsibility.

I’m sad to hear that there are still so many teachers who tackle toilet training on the side of their jobs – and for the growing number of children in my shoes.

n As told to Samantha Brick.