A portable urinal? Yes, really. You need one if you have small children. Let’s be honest: parenting involves a lot of bodily fluids. Poo, sick, snot, and yes—wee. So while the idea of having a flask of warm urine sloshing around in your rucksack might sound horrendous, I’m here to tell you it was genuinely one of the best parenting hacks I ever discovered.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not Instagrammable. But if you’ve got small children, it might just save your sanity—especially at festivals, in traffic jams, or on wet Welsh hillsides.
“A portable what now?!”
“What on earth?!” I hear you cry, “That sounds unbearably gross.”
You know what? I completely agree. The idea of carrying your own urine around in what is essentially a flask with a screw cap—let alone the wee of your offspring—is not appealing. But when you have children, so many things are just inherently gross.
After years of wiping poo off small bottoms, cleaning mysterious fluids off your jeans, and catching vomit in your bare hands, there comes a point when having your child pee into a plastic bottle and popping it in your bag just doesn’t feel all that strange anymore. It starts to feel… practical.
The festival moment that changed everything
I still remember watching a poor mum at Glastonbury trying to force her toddler into a long-drop toilet. The child, clearly traumatised by previous experiences, was clinging to the doorway like a cat resisting a bath.
Back then, I was a smug, child-free twenty-something. I probably tutted and made a mental note to report her to Social Services.
Now? I look back with nothing but empathy. The kid had to wee—what was she supposed to do?
Let me be very clear: no one should attempt to use a portable urinal for a poo (if you or your children are considering it—please don’t). But if you can cut down the number of traumatic festival toilet trips to just the necessary ones? That’s parenting gold.
What we used (and why it worked)
When I first looked for a “children’s portable urinal,” I fell down a rabbit hole of bizarre products: frog-shaped potties, medical-looking jugs, things that looked like crime scene evidence.
Eventually, I found the one: a discreet grey, opaque plastic bottle about the size of a Thermos, with a screw cap and a surprisingly effective female adaptor. Not glamorous—but functional, affordable, and blissfully spill-proof.
It worked brilliantly for our son, and the female adaptor made it a game-changer for our daughter too. Compared to the alternative—her squatting on a muddy verge, pants around her ankles, crying as wee ran into her shoes—this felt positively civilised.
Parenting in a field (or a campervan)
At festivals, I’d discreetly take the kids to a quiet spot and let them use it. No mess, no fuss, no drama. And if anyone did notice, they were just grateful my children weren’t peeing behind the recycling bins.
It wasn’t just for festivals either. That humble little bottle got us through long car journeys, day trips, and campervan holidays.
I used to carry it in a plastic bag with a bit of loo roll, and after use, I’d pop the tissue inside and empty the whole thing into the next proper toilet. Simple.
A real moment of glory (in Wales, obviously)
One particularly miserable day in Wales springs to mind. It was raining sideways. We were parked up in the van, halfway up a hill. My daughter suddenly declared she was “bursting.” There was no way we were going outside.
So out came the urinal and a towel for modesty. She peed happily, we all applauded, and my husband didn’t even burn the stir-fry. Parenting win.
It’s also a bit… eco?
I know it sounds odd, but it felt good not letting the kids wee all over the countryside. I’ve seen too many beautiful campsites turned into unofficial toddler toilets, with sad little patches of soggy loo roll waving in the breeze.
Teaching the kids to respect nature—and shared spaces—felt like a small but meaningful parenting win. Plus, it meant we could actually walk barefoot near our tent without tiptoeing through someone else’s breakfast wee.
I used it too. Obviously.
Of course I did. Camping, middle of the night, can’t be bothered to trek to the loo block in the dark? Sorted.
I even tried to use it once while still in the driver’s seat of the car. We were at a motorway service station, the kids were asleep, and I couldn’t leave them alone. So I attempted to wee into it, slightly reclined, in the front seat.
Let me tell you now: don’t do this. It only works if you’re upright. I ended up peeing all over the seat. The rest of the drive from Northumberland to Manchester was… damp. Explaining it to my husband—“Sorry darling, I’ve pissed all over the car”—was not the romantic reunion I’d planned.
Retirement and nostalgia
These days, the urinal lives in the back of a cupboard, somewhere between the outgrown wellies and the half-used packet of wet wipes.
The kids are older now. They can go when they need to—or hold it if they have to. It’s a milestone I’m glad we’ve reached. But I’ll admit, I feel a tiny pang of nostalgia every time I see it. That ridiculous plastic bottle got us through some serious moments. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was reliable. Like the Toyota of toilet solutions.
Also, for the record: my husband refuses to call it The Family Urinal and has never once used it. More fool him, I say.
Final thoughts (yes, still about wee)
So yes—if you’re a parent of small children and you’re still sceptical, let me be clear: get the urinal. Stick it in your bag. Use it. Embrace the weirdness.
You’ll wonder how you ever managed without it. And when your kids grow out of needing it, don’t be surprised if you find yourself oddly proud… or at the very least, slightly drier.
(And yes—I can’t quite believe I’ve managed to write over 1,000 words about a portable urinal either. Not entirely sure what that says about me, but here we are.)
Want one? Here’s what to look for:
Not sponsored (obviously), but here’s what made ours great:
Opaque, durable plastic
Screw-cap lid (crucial!)
Optional female adaptor
Compact enough to carry in a bag
Easy to empty and clean
This is the one we have:
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