Daughter (5): “How long does it take to take over the world?”
Me: “I can’t really answer that, because nobody’s ever taken over the world.”
Daughter: “Jesus did.”
Two Players: a parent, and child
First Player: “I intend to make use of the lavatory. Dost thou wish to make use of same, afore?”
Second Player (offstage): “No.”
(First Player embarks upon stated assignment.)
(Pause, sufficient for first Player to have gained admittance to lavatory and made necessary preparations for stated assignment.)
(Pause, sufficient for first Player to have partially achieved stated assignment.)
Second Player (offstage): “I need to do a poo!”
Just witnessed the least surprising sugar meltdown since the Acme Nitrocellulose Film Co. moved its storage facility to Jamaica on the very same day that its sister company Acme Budget Fireworks sponsored the Caribbean’s first and only Guy Fawkes celebration.
My latest parenting revelation is that you shouldn’t ask someone if they’ve wiped their bottom unless you’re prepared for an immediate, demonstrative browneye.
My daughter has discovered ‘knock knock’ jokes.
I forget jokes quickly, even ‘knock knock’ jokes, but some quick thinking on my part recently meant I was able to entertain my daughter with some rapidly transcribed entries into the canon. For example: ‘Ifor. I forgot my keys’ and ‘Fixyour. Fix your doorbell, I’m tired of knocking’.
No, not exactly Oscar Wilde, but enough to start my daughter thinking beyond the format of:
“[Name of ordinary household object within direct sight, eg. curtains, Lego, sock]”
“[Ordinary household object] who?”
“[Repeat original response and append the word ‘bum’, before throwing back head and laughing uproariously]”.
In fact, no sooner had I broadened her horizons with a little meta-humour (“Knock knock” “Who’s there?” “Who.” “Who who?” “What what?”) than she was ready to take flight with something a little more sophisticated of her own.
“Knock knock,” she challenged. Her look said ‘I’m throwing away the rulebook here, and the rulebook is called Caution, and what I’m throwing it into is the effing wind’. But there was something else: uncertainty, fear at her own aspirations, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Had she gone too far, too soon? Whatever her punchline was going to be, was it too late to figure out a way of adding ‘bum’ to the end of it?
“Who’s there?” I answered, betraying no sign that I had detected any flaw in her mettle.
“Knock,” she declared, surer now of the strength of her material, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth as she sensed the full magnitude of the psycholinguistic victory she was about to enjoy over me.
“Knock… who?” I quavered, as though suddenly and hideously aware of the scale of my impending defeat.
“Knock… KNOCK!” she answered.
And she threw back her head and laughed, and so did I, because she had turned the joke upon itself, you see, made it infinitely recursive, twisting it into the form of a pretzel that has been swallowed by a snake that, remaining peckish, then eats its own tail, and nobody had needed to append the word ‘bum’ to anything, and then I immediately dashed to my computer to write down her joke so that I didn’t forget it, which brings us back to my original point about not being able to remember jokes very well; again, somewhat like the pretzel-eating ouroubouros I mentioned earlier.
And that is how ‘knock knock’ jokes are made, always and forever.
Thought I’d found a spare, unused nappy on the floor! Now imagine the most extreme possible antonym for ‘unused’, and comprehend my horror.
Charming write-up by Tavis Allison at The Mule Abides on running a Dungeons & Dragons– themed birthday party for eight-to-nine year olds. I like the idea of every character starting out with a magic item of their choice, and letting the kids take home their chosen dice and player miniature is just brilliant.
Also: horse meat.
Just had to clean up a urine spill (in a wardrobe, no less), in the course of which I stubbed my toe on a xylophone shaped like a dog.
My daughter and I are playing superheroes. She has a sequinned cape, kneepads and a sword; I have a pink shawl and a handbag with a toy spanner with it.
My daughter is having trouble getting to sleep. “I want prince,” she sobs.
Halfway through my acapella version of ‘Sexy MF’ I realised she was referring to the prince in Sleeping Beauty.
To some questions there are no easy answers. For instance, I have no idea why an octopus – let’s call him Henry – would need to wear a hat.
I’m not sure The Wiggles have much to offer from an educational perspective if they still haven’t figured out how to wake up Jeff.
Measuring my progress as a dad by my increasing willingness (nay, enthusiasm) to venture outside wearing only my underpants.
Always a bit sceptical when I hear The Wiggles claim that Dorothy is their favourite dinosaur.
What basis for comparison do they have?
Opened bin to find wasp in there. Put bag of incredibly soiled nappies on top of wasp.
Managed to flick a vibrant yellow stripe of poo onto myself. Not my own, if that makes it any better.
Confirmed! Robot dancing to an incorrectly-sung version of Gary Numan’s ‘Cars’ is not amusing to child who is, at that moment, defecating.
My daughter just asked me to “run like an emo”. I had already slipped over on my own tears when I realised she meant “emu”.
It’s just gone 8.00am and I’ve already picked up one piece of human poo with my fingers.