Why you little...!

In my head, I'm the fun one in the relationship and the Wife is the authoritarian. I'm the one that has learnt to do magic tricks like pulling the end of my thumb off (I made a friend's son faint doing that once. It was awesome), I have a selection of superb jokes, I can do that flippy thing where you spin them over backwards. Quite frankly, I'm Mr Tumble with social skills.

In my head.

Outside of the fantasy land I've conjured for myself, I'm probably more like a cross between Homer Simpson and Frank Spencer.

Take for instance the events of yesterday bath time. The Boy was being uncharacteristically cross, and point blank refused to get undressed. I went through the parent check list, 1/ Calm approach. 2/. Stern approach. 3/. Cajoling approach. 4/. Pleading. 5/. Bribery. 6/. Shouting. None of the above worked, and by the time I'd reach the shouting stage the Boy was lying under my bed, refusing to have a bath because "They're stupid" and I was pretty much apoplectic. What I did next is on the "DON'T" list for good parenting.

 I went into his bedroom, picked up his box of Lego, held it out of the bedroom window and shouted; "I'll throw them out of the window if you don't get undressed!" This was a mistake because the Boy, being an expert poker player, called my bluff. Having backed myself into a corner, I was left with the decision whether to make good with the threat, and spend a week picking Lego out of the conservatory gutter, or backing down. Being the spineless type of psycho, I backed down. I managed to get the Boy into the bath (cost me five quid) but he didn't want to talk to me anymore, and spent the whole time saying "I want mummy!" Here’s my issue, friends, neighbours - they're allowed to have favourites, but apparently it’s wrong for you to. So whilst this is okay

"I want mummy!"

"Mummy's right here."

"I want daddy then!"

"I AM daddy."

"I want... Boris-cat!!"

Its not okay to take a sudden dislike to the Girl when I give her my car keys to play with and, on trying to get them back, she stabs me quite deliberately in the throat with them. Instead I'm meant to smile sweetly whilst people say "Well, they say red heads are more fiery." Which, when you think about it, actually means "Ginger = Psycho." Similarly when the Boy turns to me after a game of Monster Buzz! and says

“I beat you again, dad. Do you want me to let you win this time?”

I’m not allowed to completely ignore him for a week. At least, not without taking some considerable flak about it. The same goes for when I was about to go out for a beer and the Girl ran over to me yelling

“Its not! Its not!”

“Its not what?”

Before grabbing the bottom of my t-shirt, blowing her nose and running off yelling

“Snot!”

The Boy even knocked me stone cold sparko, once. Once again during bath time (a melting pot for all the worst behaviour of my Kids) we were having an argument. I forget what it was about, but the upshot was this, as I turned to pick up the Boy’s trousers he crouched down and sprung up, cracking me under the chin so hard I hit my head on the sink. I came round to find him kneeling on my chest, slapping me in the face and shouting

“Wake up, lazy!”

Not that he's a particularly violent boy. Its more comedy violence - the equivalent of a pie in the face by someone who doesn't realise the pie shouldn't contain battery acid.

"How many numbers are on that clock, Boy?"

*Sigh* "One...two...three...four..." *Sigh* "ATTACK!"

Or someone who has only a tenuous grip on the English language.

"I'm going to chop your knackers off!"

"What??"

"Er... I meant 'neck'."

“Time outs” in the boot of the car, flushing their goldfish down the loo, shaking them warmly by the throat – all of these cross your mind. I used to tell people when the Boy was tiny that if he screamed during the night we’d tie a rope to his leg and hang him out of the window. You’re allowed to have these thoughts. You’re allowed to think that your kids are out to humiliate you, or hurt you. For a while I was convinced the Girl was trying to insure she had a better inheritance by sterilising me using the uncomplicated method of jumping on my crotch every time I sat down. You’re allowed these because you won’t act on them (and if you do, well, you’re a shit) and because it won’t be long before they say something that makes you love them. Last night it was this

*Sigh* “I can’t be bothered to put the chickens to bed. Boy, can you shut the chickens up?”

“Yep.” Opens back door. “SHUT UP CHICKENS!”