The Secret Diary of a 2 Year Old (Part 50)

MONDAY
Kicked off big style after bathtime so they sat me on the naughty step. Had no pants on so made a political statement by emptying my arse all over it. #fuckthepolice

TUESDAY
It’s simply not enough that I have all the toys I want. Other people must also have toys. Not necessarily the toys they actually want but the toys that I want them to have. And this can change dramatically at any moment for absolutely no reason so keep the fuck up, bozos.

WEDNESDAY
I wish everyone would stop telling me I can’t do stuff. It does my little tits in.

THURSDAY
Back on the naughty step today. I really don’t understand how the good old fashioned bottom step is now suddenly the naughty step? It’s a joke really as it’s the very same step that Daddy sits on to tie his shoelaces and he never screams, sobs and then reluctantly apologises before he gets up like I have to.

FRIDAY
Some little girl at the park had thrown her hat on the floor and her Mummy was telling her to pick it up but she wouldn’t pick it up so I walked towards them and also told her to pick it up while pointing my finger quite aggressively at nobody in particular, hoping that an extra voice would help resolve the situation. Daddy said it was rude for me to do that and then he started waffling a load of old shite about people in glass houses not throwing stones or something but I got bored so picked up an actual stone and tried to throw it at a dog and Daddy got annoyed again, even though we were nowhere near a frigging glass house. Once again, mixed messages from the Big People.

SATURDAY
Had meatballs for lunch and they were bloody delicious. Kind of wish I hadn’t spent the last 18 months throwing them at the wall every time now.

SUNDAY
Woke up super early as Daddy hadn’t shut the curtains properly so he took me downstairs and we watched telly for proper ages. Finished Season 4 of Bing (not as good as Season 3 IMHO – talk properly you animated arsehole!) and watched some old-skool, bootleg Mr Tumble on YouTube. Great morning. Think I’ll wake up early every single day from now on if that’s what happens.

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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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