THE SECRET DIARY OF A 3 YEAR OLD

MONDAY
‘Aww, have you had an accident?’ IT’S NOT AN ACCIDENT IF I DID IT ON PURPOSE, DICKSPLATS. Consider that a dirty protest.

TUESDAY
This potty training reward chart is so patronising. Pissed myself today on principle.

WEDNESDAY
Fair play, whoever renovates our house from a post-apocalyptic shit tip into something vaguely inhabitable while I’m in bed deserves all the plaudits. Hope the Big People are grateful to whoever that poor fucker is.

THURSDAY
Mummy needs to understand that when I scream:

‘MUMMMMMMY! FIX ITTTT!’

what I’m trying to convey is:

‘Mother, I have observed that you are presently attempting to transport a rancid potty that brims with hot piss whilst struggling with the upstairs baby gate, but could you please just give me some small assurance that when your current task concludes satisfactorily you will assist me in fast-forwarding these tiresome YouTube ads in order that I may continue to watch Little Baby Bum videos that will ultimately rot my brain?’

FRIDAY
Aimed my toddler-todger the wrong way on the potty. Whazzed all over my hand. Touched Daddy three times on the face to thank him for his assistance.

SATURDAY
Daddy stupidly told me about his plans for later on which meant I wanted to do them right now. That silly fucker never learns.

SUNDAY
Accidentally dummy-shamed a 6 year old in the park by casually remarking to Mummy that she was a baby while pointing directly at her face. I didn’t mean to cause offence (what’s wrong with being a baby?) but she unleashed a barrage of abuse in my direction that honestly had no place near the roundabout. I would have pointed to her eloquent and multisyllabic diatribe as proof that she had, in fact, outgrown the use of dummies but I was far too busy trying not to soil my big boy pants to put together a coherent retort.

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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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