The Walking Disaster
byDespite clear leaps forward over the last hundred years with such things as indoor loos, disposable nappies, snot sucker-outerers, nappy wipes, toddler-leashes & Phenergan, I’m not convinced parenting is getting any easier.
Just to be clear, no, my daughter doesn’t do drugs. That being said, the title is totally legit.
I had this post written in the back of my mind for days, so when The NRMA approached me to sponsor a post I immediately said yes.
“Help!” screamed Miss12.
Like all good parents, we try to instil in our children the idea that honesty is the best policy.
“Send me a photo?” I asked my wife on Thursday night. “No,” she said. “You’ll have to use your imagination.”
Poppy would surely turn in his grave.
I have a confession. My kids annoy the hell out of me.
Under oath I’ll swear I was being a good, responsible dad. The circumstantial evidence, however, is really stacked against me.
One of the things I love about small towns is how everyone knows who you are. It’s not for some people, I know, but I like the sense of belonging. There is a flip side, however: You can’t get away with anything.
Apparently, I’m embarrassing.
She’s a climber. She’s a runner. She’s a dodger. She’s a hider. Plus, she’s dead keen on playing with knives. She’s genuinely the biggest pain in the butt child we’ve ever had.
“We need to get Mum a Snickers on the way,” I overheard Master9 say to his sister. “She’s not herself when she’s hungry.”