7 REASONS I WISH I WAS A TODDLER

1.YOU CAN GO TO THE TOILET ANYWHERE

No need to stop at motorway services or even find a tree to hide behind. Just wait till you’re surrounded by loved ones at a family Christening, lock eyes with one of them and angrily squeeze one out. Beautiful and convenient.

2.IT'S SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE TO THROW A TANTRUM

It’s the Friday before Christmas and your boss asks you to work late. You plaster on a fake smile, nod and say, ‘Of course, no problem at all!’ when all you really want to do is roll round on the floor, waving your limbs until your screaming face is beetroot and you’re choking on your own snotty tears.

3.YOU HAVE ZERO RESPONSIBILITY

Adults have to fret about broken boilers, council tax and Brexit. The biggest conundrum a toddler will face is whether to eat that bogey or smear it across the wall.

4.YOU CAN BE WRECKLESS

Ever fancied running with your eyes shut or getting your face stuck in a hole? How about diving head-first down the stairs or spreading Sudocrem on your tongue? Act in this manner and you’ll no doubt make a poor impression with the in-laws but for toddlers this is just a regular Tuesday.

5.STAINS DON’T MATTER

For adults, milk stains on the crotch look decidedly dubious and will probably ruin that job interview. For pre-schoolers nobody gives a toss and more importantly, your peers won’t judge as they’ll be covered in their own shite too.

6.EVERYTHING IS NEW AND EXCITING

Imagine being shot into outer space to explore unchartered planets, communicating with advanced and unfamiliar life forms while learning exotic cultures and customs. That’s how toddlers feel when they go into a room they’ve not been before.

7.YOU CAN READ THE SAME BOOK AGAIN AND AGAIN

Imagine reading the same book fifteen times a day but LOVING EVERY SECOND. For the under-3’s, ‘Peppa Pig Goes To The Fair’ is a subtle piece of art that grows with repeated readings, not the steaming honk of shit that you consider it to be.

(I post a new parenting list to my FB page every Sunday...I'm a stand up comic and dad to toddler twins and you can find more blogs on this website...)

Comments

The Time I Screamed at my Kids

Before my kids arrived I swore I’d never shout at them. But choosing how to approach parenthood before your kids are born is like a caterpillar deciding what kind of butterfly they’re gonna be while they’re still building the cocoon. ‘I’ll still do loads of charity work, of course. And I’ll be REALLY nice to moths too, even though they’ll probably hate me because I’ll be so bloody gorgeous.’ Theory and reality are like sugar and shit. I’ve raised my voice to my kids more times than I can count. Often just to shout ‘STOP SHOUTING!’ which I’m aware doesn’t set a great example. ‘You should NEVER shout at your kids.’ And that’s fine. In theory. Because everything’s fine in theory. The Slimfast diet is a piece of piss until day two when you’ve had three hours sleep and someone offers you a Wagon Wheel. Of course, I never WANT to shout at them. I love them more than words can describe. But those you love are also the ones blessed with the innate ability to boil your piss q

The Time I Smeared Shit on the Duvet

My wife and I developed our parenting systems through trial and error. One of the earliest rules we’d introduced was that if it was after 5am and one of the babies became unsettled, we wouldn’t waste our time trying to get them back down in their cot - we’d just bring them in with us. After a nice cuddle in our bed, they’d normally settle back down, barring the occasional impromptu fanny gouge or affable bollock kick. (Babies are the most violent sleepers on the planet, easily capable of committing GBH in the middle of reaching for their dummy.) Our twins were six months old. I was fast asleep. At least, the deepest sleep you can get once your kids arrive. My pre-kids sleep used to be the nocturnal equivalent of deep sea diving. Nowadays I’m lucky if I can submerge my toes in a puddle. Early on, my sleep was lighter than a Ryvita biscuit who’d been having it off with a helium canister they’d met on Tinder. Everything woke me up. Some nights I’d just lie there, bewi

The Time I Got Sent to the Naughty Step

The naughty step is only as powerful as the child allows it to be. I once sent my son there and 20 seconds later he came racing through the living room on his fucking bike. I briefly tried to return him to his pleasantly carpeted penitentiary but I was far too busy giggling. On another occasion, my lad wouldn’t go to bed and instead plonked himself down on the bottom of the stairs in defiance. I started to threaten him with a trip to the dreaded step of naughtiness. ‘IF YOU DON’T GET TO BED RIGHT NOW, I’ll, erm….’ I tailed off as I realised he was already sitting on the effing naughty step and my threat now made less sense than Welsh hip-hop. I could see on his little face, he’d worked this out too. He threw me a smirk that said, ‘You’ll do what, knobhead?’ I felt it crucial not to back down. So I continued: ‘I’LL PUT YOU ON THE NAUGHTY STEP, YOUNG MAN!’ ‘But I’m already on it!’ he snorted. My brain turned to scrambled egg. ‘WELL THEN!’ I had nothing. Bu

Sam Avery

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