The Secret Diary of a 20 Month Old (Part 26)

MONDAY

Got some new books today but for me, there’s nothing more relaxing than sitting down with a book I’m very familiar with. I must have read that one about the zoo a million times and despite the fact there’s no real story, character development or a satisfying conclusion, it really moves me. Plus it’s fun to hear the big people try to inject false enthusiasm into their voice when I demand we read it again.

TUESDAY

I’ve been saying this for a while now but Postman Pat is an absolute knob. I’m only 20 months old and even I know he’d struggle to get his hands on a fucking plane. Love Peppa Pig though. What a role model. I hope I grow up to be just as obnoxious as her.

WEDNESDAY

Refused to take my nap today. Was convinced something amazing was going to happen and I didn’t want to miss it. Nothing happened. Got annoyed.

THURSDAY

Played with daddy’s iPad this morning but they took if off me. Said they’d put it somewhere safe. Found it on the sofa later so put it in the toilet. That’s got a lid so must be really safe. Apparently not. You can’t win with these people.

FRIDAY

Went to see Father Christmas today. What a joke. Who is this man anyway? And why are we queuing up to meet someone with a fake beard who smells of biscuits?

SATURDAY

Note to self – while Sudocrem is great for bum rash, it tastes horrible. I had half a tub in my mouth at one point. Tried to scrape it off my tongue but still had loads on my fingers so made it worse. Started crying which turned the stuff to this horrible gloopy shite. At least I won’t get bum rash on my face now.

SUNDAY

Felt a bit sad today but then did a poo that took lots of effort and then I felt dead happy. Made sure I locked eyes with a big person while I was doing it. I think it freaks them out.

(I post a new 'Secret Diary' to my FB page every Tuesday...I'm a stand up comic and dad to toddler twins and you can find my parent blog 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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