The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old

MONDAY

Hottest day of the year so Daddy left my rancid nappy in the car all day with the windows closed. Mummy opened the door and had to fight back tears as we were hit with a stench so unspeakably foul that many insurance brokers would have considered the vehicle a complete write-off. Daddy remarked how the car had become ‘a giant Dutch oven’ which has totally put me off visiting the Netherlands.

TUESDAY

Gonna set up a Trip Advisor site for baby change facilities. Some of those places need a good old fashioned rinsing - primarily with hot water, but also via angry, misspelt online comments.

WEDNESDAY

I’ve been told to prepare for potty training. They’ve been told to prepare to play fecal hopscotch across the kitchen every morning.

THURSDAY

Curled one out into the potty and everyone cheered. The big-match atmosphere inspired me to jump up and bend straight over for cleaning but I got my angles wrong like a goalie who’s misjudged a corner and somehow managed to brush my forehead across the freshly laid arse-cable.

FRIDAY

First swimming lesson. Cried for all of it except the last 2 minutes when I really found my groove and then they told me it was time to get out so started crying again. BUNCH OF AQUA-BASTARDS.

SATURDAY

Just because I fall over in a highly comical manner that clearly doesn’t cause me any physical harm, is there any need for the Big People to stifle laughter as they console me? Have some humanity for Tumble’s sake.

SUNDAY

I’m obnoxious at times and reprehensible at others. My manners don’t exist and I regularly soil myself and those closest to me. I also slap. Randomly and without prejudice. Bloody good job I’m cute, huh?

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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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