It’s a mystery…

The Mystery Machine.

I’ve been a dad for over three years now and have been blogging for a similar amount of time, so have gained all kinds of knowledge about the miniature people we call children and explored theories on here about why they say and do certain things.

I think, for the most part, I’m pretty clued up on kids – well, boys under the age of three years and two months anyway – but I still have the odd mystery to solve. Here are some of them…

Why do kids’ clothes have pockets on them?

When I move between two places – and this can be as simple as going outside and shutting the door – I have to check that the contents of my pockets are still there. It’s unlikely that they’ll ever find some way of jumping out, but it’s my nice obsessive little thing.

When Dylan and Xander move between places, they either give me their precious possessions or chuck them on the ground. They don’t need pockets yet their clothes are festooned with them. Why? I must know!

What’s with the big attraction to stickers?

They’re largely pointless and perfectly meet the required criteria to be regarded as five-minute wonders. They end up covered in fluff, having completely lost their stick or on the underside of your socks.

As I’ve said many times, I can’t stand Peppa Pig, but it feels wrong to look like I’ve been stamping on her.

Why are they so contrary?

This mystery defies logic. They campaign long and hard for something, wheeling out every manipulative skill in their ever-growing repertoire – at the moment it’s to watch the Pingu DVD – but, as soon as you’ve caved in with all attempts at negotiation in tatters and that hope of a job in the diplomatic corps a distant dream, they change their mind. I should have named them both Mary.

Where DO all the dummies go?

We always stockpile these, such is their apparent itinerant nature, yet within days they’re all missing. We turn the house upside down trying to find just one so that Xander will calm down and at least consider going to sleep, but never find any.

Then he’ll rock up with three in his hands. Is there some kind of portal to another dimension in our living room that only the boys know about? It could be the same one the woodlice get in through, come to think of it.

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