Parent Says: Ask your father.
Parent Means: I can no longer be arsed to make one more parenting decision on my own, nor have the energy to think about anything other than how lovely it would be if Channing Tatum appeared now and picked me up in his arms (even if he had to seriously engage that core) and whispered soothingly in my ear that everything would be ok in the darkened room he was taking me to. He would sadly not be joining me however, as this might make the father I told you to ask, feel a little small (on every level).
Child Thinks: Why on earth would I ask my father when I’ve just asked you? My father will definitely say no, but you…well, I just need to work on you a bit. If I promise to be really helpful (which I’ll do for about half an hour) and tell you how much you remind me of a slightly older Meghan Markle, then I reckon I’m in.
No pudding unless you finish your dinner.
There is no pudding except a few wrinkled satsumas in the fruit bowl, so I’m being a smart ars because unless a miracle occurs, I’m pretty sure you’re never going to finish that enormous plate of liver and green beans I gave you.
There is absolutely no way I am eating this disgusting food so I really couldn’t care less if there’s any pudding or not. I’ve got a secret stash of Halloween sweets up in my room anyway for emergency situations such as these.
I’ve told you a thousand times.
I obviously haven’t told you a thousand times, more like 57 times but you’re still not listening. Why does nobody listen to me? Am I just this ghostly figure who wanders around screeching at everyone in my permanent high pitched screechy voice? Maybe it’s so high now that only prairie wolves in the Mexican desert can hear it….
I can’t hear you because your voice is so permanently high, screechy and naggy that it is merely background noise to me and can easily be drowned out by any electronic device that I happen to be attached to.
Say pardon, not ‘what.’
‘WHAT’ sounds like you’re now a cast member of Grange Hill, and let’s just say you’re well and truly on the Dark Side with Gripper and Pogo Paterson, sadly not being a goody like Janet trying to save Roland from Wagon Wheels.
WHAT? And who on earth is Pogo Paterson?
I want, never gets.
I want never gets until you incessantly whinge and moan enough that I can’t bear it for one more second. When I start rocking backwards and forwards then you know you’ve nearly hit the jackpot and you’re going to get it very, very soon.
She’s rocking…. BINGO!
Who is ‘she‘? The cat’s mother?
I have carried you in my womb for 9 months, given birth to you, fed you, watered you, jumped at your every need, turned into an extremely tired, irrational person for you and quite frankly I think I deserve to be called by my official parental title, rather than she. But I’ve no idea what the cat’s mother has to do with anything. We don’t even have a cat.
Sometimes I can only grunt, never mind actually be bothered to say Mum. So you’re lucky to get a ‘she‘ to be honest. But as for the cat’s mother…. I think you’ve completely lost the plot (is this a menopausal thing?) because we don’t even have a cat.
Do as I say, not as I do.
Obviously don’t do as I do, because then you’d be a wine drinking, pic n’ mix eating, Netflix binge watching, Liam Gallagher-fancying, easily irritated, sweary kid and that would all be very, very wrong and you’d have no friends your own age.
I wish I could do as you do. Imagine being able to eat what you want, drink what you want, watch what you want, say bad words when you want and go to bed whenever you want. I don’t know why you tell me not to grow up too quickly. Being grown up seems pretty good to me. And you don’t even have to go to school.
Back in my day.
Now this one I am terribly fond of because I can harp on and on about how much better everything was in my day. The glorious 80’s and 90’s. The music, the clothes (debatable to be fair), the freedom, the fresh air, the lack of technology and that old classic, that we – yup, every single 80’s child in the entire world – used to be out on our bikes. All. Day. Long. According to this now popular myth, which is regularly spouted from the mouths of anyone born in the 1970’s, we did nothing but cycle all over the country for 12 hours solid, not even having toilet or snack breaks, while our extremely devil-may-care parents had no idea whatsoever where we were. But for some reason that was ok, because it was back in our day, when everything was so much better.
Oh no please, not the ‘when I was your age, I was out on my bike all day long in the fresh air’ one again. This one always goes on for a while. I’m surprised you and your friends weren’t all Tour de France contenders, the amount of time you spent on those bikes. Hoorah for being a child in the digital age, that’s what I say. Now can I get back to my iPad please?