The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old

MONDAY
Did a stand up wee for the first time. Felt very grown up. Shame it was on the bookcase.

TUESDAY
Must stop giggling when I’m up to no good. It alerts the authorities.

WEDNESDAY
Managed to bolt out the front door and leg it halfway down the street completely bollocko. Felt like the whole world was chasing me. The big people shouted my name as the cool night air caressed my jiggling junk. Never felt so alive.

THURSDAY
Daddy put my shoes on the wrong feet and took me to nursery. What chance have I got riddled with the genes of this fuckwit?

FRIDAY
Invented a new game in the garden that combined the traditional elements of Association Football alongside the mindless and unforgiving violence of an inner city riot. Mummy refused to play with me because I was ‘kicking the fence’ even though, if she’d listened properly, she’d know that was clearly within the rules.

SATURDAY
Ran away while daddy was wiping my arse. The miserable git didn’t offer a smile even though it was clearly the most hilarious thing in the history of things. He just got stressed and started chasing me with loads of loo paper in both hands like some toilet-based cheerleader, imploring me not to sit down because my weeping bumhole would ruin the carpet. If anything, he only planted the idea in my head to rub my rusty hoop on as much of the floor as I could so it’s entirely his fault that our landing now looks like a Jackson Pollock.

SUNDAY
It’s been made aware to me that a very small selection of adults would prefer these diaries without the swearing. They believe that it’s not appropriate for a child of my age to use the language that I do. Even though I’m fictional. Knob off, bellwipes.

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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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