The Secret Diary of a 2 Year Old (Part 41)

MONDAY

Had the runs today. Arse was out of control. Every fart felt like Russian Roulette. At the dinner table I pushed out something that felt like soup so Daddy took my pants off and I sharted down his arm. He looked like Mummy when she tried that cheap spray tan.

TUESDAY

Started to feel sick at lunch so made sure I ate loads more food than usual and asked for seconds and drank extra juice. Was tucking into my third waffle when I did a weird cough which morphed into a puke which went on forever and definitely lasted longer than some of my naps. Tried to polish off the waffle in between bouts of retching but the bastards took it off me and then I puked all over my plate and they took that away even though I clearly hadn’t finished and I tried to tell them but they said eating your own sick is bad for you which is rubbish as I’ve seen the dog do it and he’s always wagging his tail.

WEDNESDAY

Woke up feeling brilliant. Stood up in cot, giggling my head off. Tripped over duvet. Twatted head on side of cot. Started crying. Mummy came in so I jumped up again, feeling better. With all the excitement and emotion I fell back and twatted my head a second time on the headboard. Started screaming. Godawful start to the day. The world can be a cruel place sometimes.

THURSDAY

Some of the banter in this house stinks worse than the nappy bin. Got asked today, ‘Are you eating a banana?’ Well Daddy, let’s review the evidence shall we? You’ve just given me a banana, and I’ve taken a bite out of said banana. So in summary, yes – I’m eating a fucking banana. How on earth you convinced Mummy to shack up with you with such woeful patter is frankly beyond me.

FRIDAY

Been experimenting with walking on my tip toes. It feels good. In fact, scratch that – it feels GREAT. Why doesn’t everyone do it? Plus now I can reach all the dangerous stuff they thought was out of reach, like wine and scissors.

SATURDAY

Slept in today till 5.20am. Felt quite lazy but sometimes you just need a bit of ‘me’ time to recharge the batteries.

SUNDAY

Did a poo today that was so difficult I’m pretty sure it came out sideways. Turned my face away from everyone so they wouldn’t know it was me but it proper stank so I denied it for ages and left the room for a bit to lie low and let the heat die down. Managed to evade the authorities for ages but then got stuck between the sofa and the bookcase so had to shout and wait for help to arrive and by then it had started climbing up my back so I kept denying it but then it started to leak so I blamed it on Mummy.

(I've been posting all the time on my FB page but have neglected to upload them to my website - apologies! And you can expect a flurry of blogs over the next week, Sam x)

Comments

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...

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...

Sam Avery

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