Skip to main content

The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old


MONDAY
Had a dream that I ruled the world. Everyone did exactly what I said and I got away with absolute murder. It was just like when the grandparents look after me.

TUESDAY
When Mummy dresses me I look awesome but when Daddy does it he just grabs whatever’s nearest. The slovenly shite he threw me in this morning was so mismatched and undersized I half expected him to bundle me into a wheelbarrow and start shouting ‘penny-for-the-guy’ at passers-by.

WEDNESDAY
Got kicked in the face by some bellwhiff on the slide queue. Top lip was caked in black mud. Daddy asked if I was doing Movember. Fuming.

THURSDAY
If it takes 10,000 hours of training to become an expert, today I became a virtuoso at clothing avoidance.

FRIDAY
You know what I love doing? Speaking at normal volume across the opposite side of a busy soft play from Mummy and then getting annoyed that she can’t hear me.

SATURDAY
Finally went on the Gruffalo trail! Was giddy with excitement as we arrived at the deep, dark wood and I’m singing the song and we start walking and even though we don’t see anything for a while, that’s fine because it helps establish the necessary tension for a big reveal later on so we keep on walking and I get a bit tired but I’m still smiling because I badly want to meet the Gruffalo and his mates so we keep on walking up hills and through mud, laugh at another family who are singing about being on a bear hunt (wrong book, douchebags) and keep on walking and I’m wondering why we still haven’t seen fuck all, not even one of the peripheral characters to keep me interested, and then I think I spot him but Daddy explains that’s just an old man having a piss so I get a bit upset and Daddy keeps saying he can see him on the horizon but it’s all lies so we keep walking and I’m about to give up and run into a bush and then WE SEE HIM! So we start running and I fall over into a puddle so I’m crying and soaking wet but Daddy shouts that we’re nearly there so I jump up and we’re running again till we get right up close and see this absolute joke of a Gruffalo that looks more like Brian Blessed so I give him the finger and shit my pants in protest.

SUNDAY
Sang a rousing rendition of happy birthday to Mummy. Her birthday’s in September but that’s not the point, is it?

🤓 I’m doing a UK stand up tour this Autumn! Get tickets here.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

10 Things I've Learned as a Parent This Week (#29)

1.I cannot believe I EVER complained about being tired pre-kids. 2.That moment when you think there's something seriously wrong with your baby but quickly realise they're just having a massive shite. Ridiculous. 3.The key to cleaning Weetabix off the floor is not to leave it for 10 days. 4.I'm struggling to come to terms with the fact my next lie in will be in 2026. 5.I can recite all the words to The Furchester Hotel yet struggle remembering my own PIN number. 6.They should make talking baby toys swear. Just once or twice a year to keep us interested. 7.I could pick out the noise of a dummy hitting the floor in the middle of an earthquake. 8.Putting shoes on a baby will make you twice as late. 9.I could shave a chimp with ADHD quicker than I can dress my son. 10.Only if they ever make me a grandad will my boys truly understand how much I love them. I'm a finalist in the MAD Blog Awards 2016 and you can vote for me in both '

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