A Boy Named Sue….

May 3, 2010

My son managed to open the cupboard under our stairs yesterday and remove a number of items – around 80% of them could have killed him. Those items are now safely locked away in the garage.

Amongst the items that he removed that were not lethal was the sweeper for the wooden floor… and he has become obsessed with it. Once he worked out what it actually was he happily pushed it around the living room , dining room and hallway making quite a good job of buffing up the parquet flooring.

“Great,” I thought. “This saves me a job. He can now throw his food around as much as he likes and clear up after himself.”

“Isn’t it wonderful,” remarked Becky and immediately got out her laptop and logged on to eBay. “I bet I could find him a little toy one for him to play with.”

I thought nothing of this until twenty minutes later she announced that not only had she found a small toy brush but a whole toy cleaning trolley that contained a brush, a mop, a dustpan and a bucket.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you doing? You can’t go buying that for him! It will confuse the boy. I don’t want him to think that’s his role in society. We should be buying him boy things!” And that last phrase was the one that lit the blue touch paper.

“What?” Becky said in that inquisitively female way – the way women do when they know they have you bang to rights for saying something ludicrous and they are now going to get you to say it again just to let you hear yourself say the ridiculous thing out loud.

I kept on digging. “He shouldn’t be playing with toy cleaning stuff. He should be playing with toy drills and toy DIY stuff.”

“He would love the toy cleaning set,” replied Becky. “He just wants to copy his Dad,” she said, emasculating me in just one sentence.

“Fair enough,” I said giving in like the emasculated push over I am and we went out and bought the toy cleaning set.

However, this week I have mainly been walking around the house wearing toy cowboy guns and a workman’s hard hat in an attempt to implicitly and subtly turn my son into a real man. Unfortunately this has not worked as Becky quite rightly pointed out I looked like one of the Village People.


“Well he sounds like a right f**king nob!” said the rather proper looking man opposite me into his mobile phone with some level of gusto.

“I hope you told this complete pr*ck just to f*ck right off!” he continued in perfect Queen’s English as I pretended not to listen and immerse myself in my newspaper.

“Mmmm…mmm…mmm?” He continued, before finishing with, “well if I see him before you do I’m going to rip his fu*king balls off! Now put Mummy on the phone darling.”

And that’s when I realised there are a million ways to parent.

... and every single one of them has a daughter!