The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old

MONDAY
How come when Mummy phones everyone else she presses one button but when she’s snitching on me to this Easter Bunny prick she dials every digit individually? I smell bullshit.

TUESDAY
Of all the shameful ways to fall over, slipping in your own piss while evading a new nappy is definitely up there.

WEDNESDAY
Stood on Daddy’s balls. Apologised to Mummy. Everyone laughed. I got confused. Maybe I’m just dead funny?

THURSDAY
Can’t believe I’m gonna be three. Will this be the year where I finally abandon nappies and embrace logic? For the sake of these diaries I do bloody hope not.

FRIDAY
Birthday party tomorrow. Wrote a speech on the kitchen wall with crayons but Mummy wiped it off so if they ask me to say a few words I’ll just have to wing it.

SATURDAY - MY BIRTHDAY!
Woke up extra early to make everyone’s day difficult. Opened all my presents in eight seconds flat, then got overwhelmed so told Daddy his playlist was shit and slapped Grandad. Loads of people turned up to my party although I only recognised about four of them so I assume the rest just wandered in to get out of the rain. Made sure I spat all over the cake as I blew the candles out so none of the freeloading bastards wanted any but then Mummy started handing out free slices as they were leaving! Come on, sugartits - it’s a disco, not a soup kitchen. Rinse the fuckers!

SUNDAY
Got three eggs. Was expecting double figures so it’s clear that Easter rabbit wanker got involved which he’ll regret, mark my words. Anyway, ate two in one sitting, more out of spite than enjoyment. Felt amazing for a bit but then puked a bit so moved onto egg number three before Mummy saw what was going on and confiscated all the chocolate. Found some birthday cake on the floor so tucked into that. Hope it wasn't from last year.

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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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