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?

I'm doing a UK tour this Autumn! Click here for tickets.

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

We Have a Winner!

Ladies and gentlemen - some news! One recipient of my newsletter is now the 'lucky' (ahem) winner of an exclusive gig from me IN THEIR HOUSE! And that person is... Lyn Morter! Well done, Lyn! (Btw, if anyone from Ofcom is reading, you can check the legitimacy of this result via the Facebook Live video I did last week.) When I informed Lyn that she'd won she simply said, 'I've never heard of you' and 'How did you get my phone number?' so I'm sure that will be a great gig for everyone. (Only joking. She was thrilled.) Thanks to all of you for entering. But what now, Sam? I hear you screaming at your smartphones. Well, I'll be taking things a wee bit easier through August, spending some much needed time with my family after all the touring. But just like that former Governor of California of Austrian descent, I'LL BE BACK (sorry) in September with more blogs, videos and general waffle. I'm also heading b

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

Sam Avery

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