Emily Jade provides a sneak peek into the life of a personal toileting concierge.

A few days ago I was waiting outside the door of the bathroom for my nearly toilet trained daughter to finish her daily routine when the doorbell rang.

Currently my daughter has decided that she is a “big girl” now and doesn’t need Mummy’s help when it comes to doing — to put it politely — a number two. After 35 months of being her personal hygiene concierge, I have been made redundant as she seeks a little privacy.

So I stand outside the loo and patiently wait for her to call me back in to finish the job. I don’t actually mind; after nearly three years I’m thrilled to be almost free of toileting another human – all the expensive nappies, toilet training and running to catch poop as it comes out of my kid’s bottom so that it doesn’t hit the carpet.

Oh, don’t be offended, s#*t happens and you know it. I’m sure that saying originated from a mothers’ group meeting over cake, a cuppa and a laugh over toddlers’ disgusting toilet habits.

I digress. Back to the day of the doorbell. When it rang I decided to run to get the door, leaving my three-going-on-13-year-old to finish her business.

It was a lovely lady selling gift cards raising money for the Epilepsy Foundation – pretty, native ones of possums and Australian wild flowers, for only $10.

The woman had that slight look of fear mixed with hopeful anticipation; such is that of doorknockers in this day and age, their annoyance status just above that of the telemarketers who ring during dinner. They are either going to open the door and have it shut abruptly and rudely in their face, or meet a complete weirdo who invites them in for a cuppa and then tries to wear them as a coat, or (hopefully) simply make a sale from a normal human being.

Priding myself on being the latter (a normal human being) I oblige, partly because I feel sorry for her, partly because I like to help charities and partly because it was good timing – I needed to write some thank you cards.

So I run to my wallet and dash back to make the transaction and right at that moment a voice calls from the bathroom.

“Wipe my bum!” followed by a small, waiting pause.

Then louder: “WIPE MY BUM!!” followed by a few more seconds of anticipation for her personal toileting concierge to run in and begin wiping duties.

Finally an exasperated “I’m FINISHED!! WIPE MY BUUUUUUMMMMMMM NOOWWWWWWWWW!” bellowed from the bathroom.

With embarrassment, I look at the woman who is putting my $10 note into her aptly named bum-bag and notice she is desperately trying to suppress a smile – and I can’t help myself.

“That’s my friend,” I say. “We are very close… would you like to come in for a cuppa?”