The Secret CV of a 2 Year Old

PERSONAL STATEMENT

I am an opinionated little gobshite who is equally arsey working on my own or as part of a team.

I am a results-driven thought leader who won’t let the fact that I’m having a bath get in the way of pushing out a hot turd.

My communication skills are piss poor and I see every task through to it’s conclusion, unless distracted.

I am highly motivated when avoiding naps or causing scenes (AKA ‘making memories’) and the affectionate nickname given to me by my colleagues of ‘The Dictator’ is testament to my ongoing commitment to excellence.

I possess an exquisite ability to shout down everyone else’s suggestions while simultaneously offering none of my own which, I believe, makes me an ideal candidate for middle management.

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE

EMPLOYER: My Family

ROLE: Anal Waste Production Executive

DATES: 2015-present

ACHIEVEMENTS: As well as the creation of bum sludge on an industrial scale, it was my responsibility to ensure that my team were fully awake from 5.20am each morning. This was a role I enjoyed and took very seriously, implementing many of my own creative and effective methods.

EMPLOYER: Nursery

ROLE: Tantrum Administrator

2016-present

ACHIEVEMENTS: General havoc, encouraging one kid to eat crayons by telling him it’d “make him shit rainbows.”

QUALIFICATIONS

- National BTEC in Potty Training (currently studying)

GNVQ’s:

- Food Refusal

- Advanced Cuteness

- Creative Stain Creation

- N.U.W.A. (Needless Uncooperation With Adults) *LEVEL 5 DISTINCTION

HOBBIES / INTERESTS

Reading (the same book over and over)

Watching Bing

Stating my clear ownership of objects

REFERENCES

Mummy

Daddy

Mr Tumble

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I post a new blog to my FB page every Tuesday...I'm a stand up comic and dad to toddler twins...I've written a book called 'Confessions of a Learner Parent' and I'm also on Instagram @thelearnerparent

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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