The Secret Diary of a 23 Month Old (Part 37)

MONDAY

Got given a meal that didn’t just look horrible, it downright offended me. I mean, I didn’t even know what it was but the second they put the plate down in front of me, I could just tell it was minging. Decided to bypass the usual gradual acceleration from whimpering-to-crying-to-screaming and just went straight in at end-of-fucking-days yelling and screeching. THEN those fuckers tried to sneak a bit into my mouth, right in the middle of my existential meltdown. Pricks. (I needed empathy at that point, not mashed potato.) Spent twenty minutes refusing to co-operate and trying to escape my high chair until they eventually ignored me for a bit and I ate the whole plate. Bloody lovely it was. Bit cold though.

TUESDAY

The Big People are always like, ‘Why are you awake so early?’ Check inside my nappy, Sherlock – that’ll help you crack the puzzle. You try sleeping when your buttocks are drowning in their own filth.

WEDNESDAY

Had some Calpol today. That stuff is magic. I went from hating the world to thinking everything was amazing. Must be what I’ve seen the Big People drink on Friday nights.

THURSDAY

Gonna be two soon. Can’t believe it really. Still don’t have a career plan in place although I think I’d probably like to grow up to be a horse.

FRIDAY

Went to the park but they dressed me in these really bad trousers that didn’t slide on the slide. And I’ve got my street cred to consider – all the other kids know me as an intrepid daredevil but these pants slowed me right up so I dripped halfway down, then got stuck and had to bum shuffle my way to the bottom. Humiliated.

SATURDAY

It’s slowly dawning on me that I’m totally clueless in almost every area of life. Today I lay down on the floor and rubbed my face across the gravel. ON PURPOSE! It stung like fuck, obviously. What is wrong with me?

SUNDAY

Those big fools left the babygate open this morning so I was straight up the stairs. It was exhilarating. My plan was to get to the top so I throw myself down again but they caught me halfway up. Bastards. It’s my own fault for giggling the whole time.

I post a new 'Secret Diary' to my FB page every Tuesday...I'm a stand up comic and dad to toddler twins...I'm also on Instagram...

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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