The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old

MONDAY
Played a game where I pretended to be Daddy. Try as I might I couldn’t quite manage to get fat, old and decrepid in the short time we were playing.

TUESDAY
Asked Daddy to get in the bath with me and then leathered him right in the tezzers. He yelped like a frog who’d just discovered he’d mistakenly booked his anniversary meal at a local French restaurant so I seized the moment and jammed my big toe into his ring piece. He got straight out muttering something to Mummy about needing counselling.

WEDNESDAY
Potty training begins tomorrow. Consumed several 9000 calorie, high intensity carbo-fibre megaportions in preparation.

THURSDAY
Mummy asked if I needed a poo. I said no. She asked if I was sure. I said no. She asked if I meant no I didn’t need a poo or no I wasn’t sure. I said no. Just as I was quietly bemoaning her ridiculous line of questioning, I shat myself. She seemed disappointed but I think if she’s really honest with herself, she’ll know it was all her fault. The woman is an arse.

FRIDAY
Managed to catch a glimpse of the horrible shite I did in the potty. Never really looked at it properly before. Has it been coming out my hoop like that the whole time?

SATURDAY
The best time to almost cack yourself is dinnertime. Not only do you gross everyone completely off their food and stink the gaff out with noxious bum fumes, but you can polish off your pizza while you squeeze one out. Delicious AND efficient.

SUNDAY
Dear Diary, today I invented something so beautiful and yet so gruesome. I call it ‘The Absent Turd.’ Part mystery, part artistic statement. Especially when craftily left behind a door that opens outwards. They won't find that for weeks.

To be continued...

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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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