The Secret Diary of a 2 Year Old

MONDAY
Did an Easter egg hunt. Picked up a dog turd. I prefer Christmas.

TUESDAY
Saw some 6 year old rocking a dummy. What a legend.

WEDNESDAY
Went to the park. Was excited to go on the big slide till I got to the top and saw how nervous Daddy was so became suddenly nervous myself. Sat at the top for ages regretting my life choices and when I finally plucked up the courage to move I got stuck halfway down in my stupid ‘slow’ pants. Started crying while bum-shuffling slowly down the slide like the last bit of ketchup in the jar so tried to stand up but Daddy freaked out shouting ‘HOLD ON, SON!’ while trying to run up the slide but slipping on his face like a total bellend. After getting laughed at by the entire park (and some passing motorists) he gave up and ran round to sprint up the steps but just ended up joining a queue of impatient toddlers waiting for their go on the slide. He tried to go back down but by now a load of other kids had joined the queue so he was boxed in like Gulliver in the middle of a Lilliputian conga. By the time he got to the top I’d already slid down, ran off and twatted my head on the roundabout.

THURSDAY
Overheard The Big People discussing my birthday presents WHILE I WAS IN THE BASTARD ROOM. Way to build suspense, guys. Apparently they’ve got me a ‘wotsit’ and a couple of ‘you know whats’ which sound absolutely bollocks if you ask me.

FRIDAY
Went to the soft play but it was closed so it seemed only fair to open the gates of Hell in the middle of the car park. Mummy calmly explained it would open in just ten short minutes so I ran away from her and cried into a bin. In my defence, I don’t really understand the concept of time yet. I don’t even understand sandwiches if I’m being honest.

SATURDAY
That baby gate has got to go. The lack of trust it represents towards me is a total disgrace when you think of all that I contribute to this family.

SUNDAY
Daddy cut my hair. Let’s just say that if ’Bad Knobhead Chic’ ever becomes popular I’ll be considered something of a fashion icon.

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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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