My daughter told me that the older kids in her pre-school were calling her and her friend babies. (She’s in the youngest class). Joeys parenting solution, *shrugs* ‘Just call them fart-bags!’
When my wife picks her up from school, my daughter told her the same story. ‘The older kids call us babies… but daddy says I must just call them fart-bags’. ‘Thats not very nice, it hurts your feelings when they call you a baby right? So you’re hurting their feelings when you call them a fart bag.
My wife is basically a democrat. I also got into trouble for buying her candy on the way to school. Apparently swearing a three year old to secrecy is an exercise in futility.
The time is 23h20. You wake up… you’re not sure why. The three year old is sleeping in your bed because she’s not feeling well. Your wife is sleeping in the other bedroom with the 7 month old. Your foot is throbbing slightly… because it’s broken.
Suddenly the three year old sits up in bed, makes a concerning gagging sound and then vomits all over you…
Warmth. But not the good kind.
You’re in a bit of a pickle. You can’t exactly leap up and into action… so you do what any grown man would do under the circumstances… you phone your wife from the opposite side of the house to come and assist you.
Fish fingers and French fries and grape juice. In case you’re interested. Still quite chunky. Like more chunky that you’d expect after three or four hours of digestion.
The Basset wakes up. Ooh fish fingers. Yum! You try to dissuade that vile creature from partaking in the second hand sustenance while trying to wipe down the pillows, sheets, wall… husband. I am obviously relegated to last on the list of priorities (as usual). ‘Want to come sleep by mommy?’ She nods. Everyone exits stage left, except me.
Ok… well… I’m fine. Thanks for asking… yeah… I shift a little more right of the wet patch. Hello? Anyone out there?
My foot hurts….
My three year old daughter harangued a third story out of me before bedtime. Usually it’s a two story limit. Buoyed by this win, she tried to go for a forth.
Leaning towards despotism I obviously said no-way, to which she got up and proclaimed that ‘I can’t live like this anymore’. And then stormed out.
Injustice as perceived by a three year old…
She came back relatively soon after with another book and a hangdog expression. Keen to turn this into a learning experience I told her she needed to match her strategy to her terrain. (Nothing like a little Sun Tzu before bedtime) and while this likely would have worked on her grandparents… flattery was probably the best recourse against her old man. I love to be told how awesome I am. Bribery in the form of chocolate is also (usually) a surefire stratagem.
This is how I imagine it should have gone. But instead I just read her another story with no reciprocal adulation or offerings of coca. Because I am weak.
Next time I will be like the sea-wall of indifference against which the wave of big blue eyes crashes and breaks! No mercy!
Parenting achievement award unlocked.
Telling your three year old if they don’t start behaving themselves RIGHT NOW, the easter bunny isn’t coming!
Immediate compliance and profuse apologizing.
I am such a monster.
Although to be honest, I am a little flattered that my daughter thinks I have so much pull with an inter-dimensional* cotton-tail…. when really my only experience with these creatures (and their machinations) is having once read Watership Down… which didn’t really sell me on the whole burrow living arrangement thing it must be said…
*I assume this is how she gets around, although I’m willing to pen a retraction should a competing theory arise which seems more credible. Also I apologize for having just pronoun’d the Easter bunny. I could find any specific reference to gender in the canon and so had to make a quick judgement call. (Eventually I decided since Eostre, the pagan goddess of fertility (on which all this is based) seemed to have mandated her heraldry to be that of a rabbit, it seemed more reasonable to me that the easter bunny is in fact female).
Every so often you see a tweet that speaks to you in way you never thought possible. This is one of those tweets. I also used to think I had a great immune system. Until I bred my own versions of the Outbreak monkey. Those little flesh pockets of pestilence seem find no better satisfaction in life than to make a mockery of my apparent resistance, shredding my defences like it’s a wet paper bag.