The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old

MONDAY
Daddy looked at my drawing today and said, ‘Nice house!’ It was a fucking car, the philistine tit.

TUESDAY
Mummy CONSTANTLY asks me to refrain from twanging my trouser snake but as someone who doesn’t own any actual real estate in the schlong department I’m not sure she entirely grasps just what delightful fun it is. I reckon Daddy knows.

WEDNESDAY
How come a stand up piss at home gets a round of applause but a stand up dump incites a riot in Sainsbury’s?

THURSDAY
Saw some toddler wearing a Nirvana shirt. Asked him what his favourite song was. He said ‘Wheels on the Bus.’ Gonna assume he didn’t dress himself.

FRIDAY
Went full beelzebastard at breakfast. Mummy looked broken and Daddy was apologising profusely for having to go to work but I defo saw him punching the air and mouthing ‘yes!’ as he danced his way to the car for a nice relaxing day at the office.

SATURDAY
Was zooming all over the place on my balance bike and laughed so hard down the hill that I missed the seat and grazed my scrotum on the back wheel. Pretty sure I’ll never have kids now. Good job really. I fucking hate kids.

SUNDAY
Why does Mummy sit down? She must know by now that it’s utterly futile – wherever she is I’ll find her and force her to get up again. I always ask nicely at first but if she’s not on her feet within a tenth of a second of my first request then I think it’s only fair to start shouting at her with increasing volume and indignation. She must stand up, always. Be ready, woman. I may not need you right this instant but if you’re sitting down you’re literally no good to anybody.

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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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