Week 42 — Quick! Move Everything Dangerous!


I’ve been taught a lesson in managing the clearance of objects littering the floor of our house: never leave your curious baby alone on a living room floor.

Not that we’ve ever left him alone, we’re very observant parents. We haven’t hit the drinking vodka at 5pm stage yet. But still, when your little bugger learns to crawl you’ve got to be on that shit and make sure where they’re heading off to is safe and not full of tools and wires and things that go crunch and ouch. Because you can guarantee (to a jury, no less) that whenever and wherever you plonk your suddenly mobile little DNA bundle they’ll do their best to outright ignore the toys you present to them and head straight for the corner of the room where the lamp cable is hanging down, ready to strangle.

I can’t put him down on the floor anymore without some sort of safety procedure, like a pen or an electric fence. And he’s smart as well! If I sit and play with him he stays still in his fat little bottom, hitting the crap out of his ball or toy plane or something. But then I look away for one sodding moment and he buggers off! When I look back he’s halfway out the door, eyes lit with the hungry fire of curiosity that comes equipped as standard in every suicidal baby. So now we need to rubber-line every corner and edge of the house, put up 19 stair gates, and superglue the cupboards shut. We should probably dispose of the dog as well, just for good measure, as that tail of his is awfully distracting for a baby.

On a stranger note, I’m once again receiving weirdly dramatic messages from my wife while I’m at work. They’re usually something about how I’ve somehow missed the latest development in our child’s bowel movements, or the fact that he’s non -stop screaming, or his new vomitous output. I’ve included the latest example of these wonderfully written and beautifully crafted messages below as a direct copy-and-paste job. This gem came accompanied with several pictures of our son besmirched with copious amounts of beetroot, in his highchair, looking like a smug, baby Alan Sugar. The little horror.

’This is your extremely proud son just after he pushed out a shit so big he actually shivered afterwards then sneeze-sprayed partially chewed beetroot all over me. 3 fucking sneezes.’

Family magic.

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