It has recently come to my attention that boys are horrid. This shouldn’t come as a surprise really. Obviously, I was one not that long ago. Okay, it was bloody ages ago, but that’s beside the point.
I genuinely have no recollection of being a horror. Indeed, I recall my late grandmother often mentioning that I was a “dear little boy”. So maybe I wasn’t. But Dylan and Xander certainly are. To reduce the risk of them suing me for defamation in later life, here’s the evidence.
It has become progressively worse since they discovered Horrid Henry. They already had the innate love of toilet humour that all young children come bundled with, but now they have a role model.
Henry is a poster boy for the fine art of generally being a wrong ‘un. I can’t deny that reading about his antics has been good for their literacy, but now they think it’s acceptable to be gits to one another. And to us too, of course. They’re fully paid-up members of the Purple Hand Gang, for sure.
Then Dylan brought this book home one evening. From the school library, no less. Having witnessed childbirth three times, there’s nothing squeamish about me. Yet this was quite the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in print.
The main character tries to cultivate the world’s biggest bogey. Nice. Needless to say, I often catch both boys knuckle deep trying to emulate him.
Then there’s the issue of the bathroom door. They both seem to think that it’s decorative and nothing more. Neither of them shuts it when they’re availing themselves of the facilities. Now perhaps this is my fault for confiscating the key, but we can’t have Amelie locking herself in.
This, of course, creates other opportunities. The other day, I was having a shower after five-a-side. One of them barged in to use the loo. Of course it wasn’t a standing up job! It was not entirely dissimilar to the old WKD advert. Albeit without a half-arsed apology. Grim.
It’s not just the scatological stuff though. Both boys have taken to answering back and are getting more brazen by the day. Last weekend I asked Xander to tidy away his breakfast things before Amelie got her hands on them and licked everything. “I am not your servant!” he yelled. He’s turning into Kevin the Teenager already.
However, he did make me an Easter card at school. Although he immediately blotted his copy book. Was it addressed to Daddy? No. I’m not quite ready to be called ‘Dad’ yet, but would have taken that. He didn’t write that either. It was to ‘Tom’. There’s respect!
Not to be outdone, Dylan gave me a backhanded compliment at the same time. “You’re the best blogger, Daddy,” he said. “I don’t know about that, but thank you,” I replied with a warm smile. “I meant you’re the best blogger in this house.” Thanks, son.
A couple of years ago, I questioned whether little girls are indeed made of sugar and spice and all things nice. The jury’s still out on that one, but I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that boys’ constituent parts could be snips, snails and puppy-dog tails. It would explain a lot.
So there you go. Fairly persuasive proof that boys are horrid. I hope this phase doesn’t last too long…