If kids had superpowers, what would they be? Invisibility? Flight? Super strength? These would be the obvious assumptions; however, these are no ordinary superheroes.
Let me introduce you to the SuperKids.
As soon as she wakes up the primary noise she will expel is whinge. Whether she’s moaning about the fact she doesn’t want the blue top on as it doesn’t go with her knickers, or because you gave her a banana with the tiniest mark on it, she will whinge and whine until the cows come home. The noise itself can turn any relatively calm parent into a stressed short tempered individual. Whinge is the kryptonite to most parents.
There’s no height too high for DangerBoy. He has zero fear and no matter how many times he’s told something is dangerous, he’ll continue. A regular visitor to the local A&E department and on first name terms with the doctors and nurses. His parents are quite sure they have a mark against their name. Injuries are merely war wounds and he will proudly show off these to any passer-by. DangerBoy is averse to the words ‘Be careful’.
If it’s green SuperFuss wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole, however chips, sweets, and chocolate seem to go down well. She can sit at a table for hours if tested and is a seasoned pro at stand offs with anyone trying to get her to consume something she doesn’t want to. Occasionally she’ll decide she wants to eat something she refused to eat the previous day. This is what is known as a mind fuss.
Captain Poopy Pants
Don’t let his age, height, or small stature fool you, Captain Poopy Pants could put a wild brown bear to shame. He can produce vast amounts of the ‘brown stuff’ and will always catch you when you least expect it. His favourite time to declare ‘he’s got to go’ is usually just as his mum or dad are about to step out of the door when they’re already late or in a queue with a full shopping trolley. Captain Poopy Pants can ward any enemy off with his pungent aroma. Most certainly a carbon copy of his father, Daddy Poopy Pants.
It doesn’t matter what you ask of Mega No, her response will always be no. Would you like to help me put away all the toys you erratically exploded around the room? “NO!” Do you like green? “No!” Would you like fish fingers and beans for tea? “No!” How about I give you a million pounds? “No!” There is literally no pleasing Mega No. Even when she knows she should probably say yes, her stubborn powers prevent her. The only way to catch her out is to start a question with “You wouldn’t mind if…” and end it with “…would you?”
There is no question King Question won’t ask. He will ask you “Why?” at least 500 times a day. His parents always vowed they’d never utter the words “Just because” or “That’s just how it is” but they’ve finally been broken and now consider Google a good friend. King Question has a knack of knowing exactly when to ask an awkward question, particularly in the public domain. Questions such as ‘Why is that man so big / in a wheelchair / wearing that / ugly’ can often leave his parents in a stuttering wreck whilst they attempt to respond most appropriate and politically correct way.
Mother, Mum, Mummy, Mom, Mommy, Ma, Mamma, Mammy, Momma. Whilst it sounds like I’m trying to do my best impression of Stewie Griffin from Family Guy, I’m simply just listing the many alternative names for the main woman in your life, or by the name you are possibly so regularly referred to as (and believe me it’s used to the max at times).
So what do we define as a mother? Someone who loves you and brings you up with affection and care from day dot, a person who has unconditional love for her child, a woman who will nurture and provide for her young? All of these are what you’d expect to be true, however some people out there may have a different view based on personal experience.
Sadly there are a number of babies born into a world without a loving family, which absolutely breaks my heart and I’m sure yours too. But luckily there are many amazing people out there, who whilst they might not have been through pregnancy, physical pain, or gas and air, they have given these children what they needed the most…love.
There are mums out there who beat themselves up on a regular basis for not being that ‘perfect’ Instagram mum they see feeding their child organic chicken and quinoa salad and a full boob of fresh breastmilk; for the fact they just shouted at their child for jumping on the sofa for the fiftieth time; or because they turned their back for a second and ended up in A&E. The term for this is mum guilt. Believe me I know. Regardless of these occasional mum guilt moments, they have given their children what they needed the most…love.
For the mums who sadly didn’t have enough chance or time with their babies/children, they have given and will continue to give them what they needed the most…love.
It matters not if they have or haven’t the same blood running through their veins, if they’re on Earth or in the clouds, a mother’s love is never ending.
I’ve lost that bloggin’ feelin’ Whoa, that bloggin’ feelin’ I’ve lost that bloggin’ feelin’ Now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoah
Bring back that bloggin’ feelin’ Whoa, that bloggin’ feelin’ Bring back that bloggin’ feelin’ ‘Cause it’s gone, gone, gone And I can’t go on, whoah
Ok so I can’t go on is a bit dramatic, I can go on, I just kept that line in for effect, and partially because my rhyming skills are pretty dire (I’ll leave that to my very talented and hilarious partner in rhyme (and cake) Rhyming with Wine). But yes, I have lost that blogging feeling. In all honesty I’ve never really considered myself as a ‘proper’ blogger and here’s why.
It all started out when I made a bit of a ‘boob’ of myself, and after receiving a backlash from a number of trolls (no not the ones with bright electric shock hair and squeaky voices. Although to be fair that would probably have been quite entertaining) I decided to tell my side of the tale, so I wrote Nobody’s Perfect.
I’d never really understood the concept of a blog until I came across the very talented and funny Unmumsy Mum Sarah Turner. If you haven’t heard of her 1. What rock have you been under? and 2. Stop reading this shite immediately and order all her books from Amazon. What a bloody wonderful woman she is, someone not afraid to tell it how it really is, no sugar coated bullshit, just the truth and reality of what is parenting and life. So when I made my very own parental boo boo I wanted to share it amongst like minded people in the same boat. That boat capsized as a result, not something I had at all expected. Whilst there were horrible comments made, many tears shed and the evidence was clear, I was pretty dumb (and remain to be at times), I still have a lot to thank for making the ‘boob’. It brought me back the creativity I’d lost since having my two boys.
I’ve always loved writing, drawing, painting etc. but since becoming a mum it had to go to the bottom of the ‘things to do’ list, I was too busy milking myself like a cow; stuffing raisins into my kids mouths whilst attempting to get a few things from Aldi; trying not to make chicken nugget / pizza / fish finger teas every night (and often failing); and all done whilst attempting to be the good wife (my husband might refute this as ever been the case) I used to be before kids, but in reality I resembled a worn out, legging wearing, make up lacking, grump frump, with a bit of added nagging for good measure. I’d lost the one thing that made me, well, me.
Blogging is my new creative outlet, yes not quite the canvas and acrylic creativeness I used to have in the past, but somewhere for me to use my brain (don’t snigger) and imagination. I still don’t to this day have a clue what a SEO or a MOZ is, and part of me thinks if I do then I’m not really doing my blog for the right reasons, purely to gain followers. The reason I blog is because it helps me relax and get back to being me, and if people do read it, then I want them to laugh and smile. Now I’m going to get all quotey on you, from one of my favourite films Jerry Maguire
Dicky Fox – “If this [points to heart] is empty, this [points to head] doesn’t matter”.
Mr Fox you are correct, if your heart is not in something then your mind isn’t either. That’s how I feel with blogging, if someone comes to me to ask me to write a blog about a tube of toothpaste, then I’m sorry but how the fudge do you expect me to write a piece about a bit of minty tasting sodium fluoride? Don’t get me wrong I like toothpaste as much as the next person, and if we didn’t have it we’d all look like Jeremy Kyle show guests, but I don’t love it enough to sell my soul and write about how it changed my life and made me feel on top of the world. Now I have been a little contradictory in all of this as I was asked by a company to write a blog about something I actually do enjoy, let’s for the sake of this blog call it belaxing for a natress company (I won’t go into great detail as I don’t want it to come back on me, but I’m sure you can figure out my crypticness). So I wrote it because I like to ‘belax’, and managed to write more about that than going into great detail about a ‘natress’ I’ve never even seen. After talking to my good blogger friend Dawn it would appear I had been ‘had’, as I never received anything for the post, I did it out the kindness (aka stupidness) of my own heart. So I feel I have to be very weary of this thing that is blogging especially when people are asking for your time (which is quite limited of late) and effort. There’s generally always a catch. On the other hand if L’oreal wanted me to dye my hair give me a makeover so I could flick it around in an advert I would happily oblige and declare it has changed my life. Yes I am that fickle, and also going grey, so a girls got to do what a girls got to do.
The other reason I’m feeling a bit wobbly about the whole blogging thing is on the back of a blogging conference I attended last year. I’m generally a very sociable and outgoing type of person, and I had visions of getting to London and being Mrs Social of East Social, Socialfield, instead I was more like Sister Bernadette from Call the Midwife. I’m not sure what happened but I lost any kind of confidence that I’d previously had on the train as myself and my good friend Dawn journeyed to London from up North like a couple of excited teenagers off to see Justin Beiber. I can only put it down to feeling completely out of my depth and the fact I feel a bit of a fraud. I don’t really get much chance to read other blogs unless I get a spare five minutes when the kids are sat gormless mouths open wide at Cbeebies, and that’s usually interrupted by “What can I eat now?”, “More duuucceee“, then once I’ve found said food or juice I’ve completely forgotten what I had previously been doing. I found it hard to spark up conversation with people because it’s a bit embarrassing when you probably follow every social platform of theirs but wouldn’t know them from Adam. But then that’s probably the point of these events? Must try harder next time, sorry guys. Luckily I did recognise the lovely Detrice Matthews who is the owner of a wonderful and heartfelt blog about her journey through breast cancer and beyond. I love her posts as they are real, straight from the heart, no bull, all genuine, and it gives you that warm feeling which usually results in me giving the kids a big bear hug. For me that’s what it’s all about, keeping it real.
Another person I recognised and really wanted to get the chance to speak was to was Sarah Turner (The Unmumsy Mum). I often say if I was to meet an idol (sorry I know that sounds so cheesy) I’d play it cool and be myself. I could not have been more fangirl if I’d have tried. I was so bloody nervous, the person who made me feel normal, less of a failure as a mum, the reason I posted the picture in the first place, and the one who inspired me to start the blog was stood right there in front of me, not only that she gave me a welcoming hug. I’d like to say I remembered our conversation but I was a little bit taken back by the whole experience. Sarah asked me how things were which would have been the perfect chance to have said something comedic and normal(ish), but no instead I just said “Yeah, you know motherhood and stuff, it’s a bit crazy. Sorry about my boobs by the way. I won’t get them out or anything“. Cue the awkward silence. If you’re reading this Sarah, I can only apologise for my David Brent style outburst. It would seem I didn’t really play it cool at all, I full on fell through the bar like Del Boy.
So whilst this is a bit of an affirmation for me (but more of a kick up the arse) I want other bloggers to remember what made them start blogging in the first place and why they love doing it. Don’t get caught up in how many followers you have, what rank you are on Tots 100, how many linkys you’ve joined, how many comments you’ve made etc. Do it for you, don’t let it stress you out, it shouldn’t feel like a chore, write because you want to, not because someone is telling you (unless it is your full time job, then as you are).
So I I’ve basically talked myself into sticking with it, and to try not lose that blogging feeling. I might only get one post out a month (if that), I probably won’t join up to any linkys, I may disappear from the social media world for a few days, and I will probably always be a WordPress.com blog link, but I’m good with that because I got that little bit of creative me back.
The title may have led you to believe this is about little people parps; well you can take a sigh of relief as this is not the case (in all honesty I’m not really convinced that would make a great read anyway).
So what do I mean by Tot Trumps? Well you may be familiar with Top Trumps, if not I shall let Wikipedia give you a quick brief;
Tot Trumps is exactly the same the only difference is that it relates to all things baby, toddlers, mums and dads.
Baby Vs Toddler Trumps
Speed of eating – Baby 60 / Toddler 20
Once babies have got the gist of the wonder that is food there’s no stopping them, they can’t ram the stuff in quick enough. Granted some of the food doesn’t actually go in their mouths, but they’re trying their best to try all of those new textures and flavours. In stark contrast a toddler, a now esteemed pro, well ish, at food can give a tortoise a run for their money at taking forever to eat their chuffing food. Never before have the words ‘Eat your food’ need to be repeated on such an epic scale, and usually on a morning when you’re rushing to get ready for work.
Poo produced – Baby 75 / Toddler 65
It’s a well known fact that babies and toddlers can produce a fair bit of poo. How such small individuals can produce a dump the abominable snowman would be proud of, I’ll never know. But babies definitely win this round hands down. Their actual amount of bum nuggets may be lesser than that of a toddler, but the impact and explosion factor more than make up for it. When you physically have to cut a baby grow off your tiny child because they’ve formed a blast which could put Hiroshima to shame, the poo to child size ratio definitely outweighs that of a toddlers. When you’ve changed nine nappies before you’ve even stepped out of the door, you know they’re in with a good chance of winning the ‘Shit Machine of the Year Award’.
Whinge level – Baby 30 / Toddler 85
Babies haven’t really mastered the art of whinge, they generally cry more than whinge, but once they hit toddler/threenager age the whinge level is turned to full pelt, and boy do we know about it. What does whinge sound like? Think of Janice from Friends laugh, then times it by 20 and repeat at least 30 times a day. Now that’s annoying, painfully annoying. “I don’t want to eat off that plaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttteeeeeeee, it’s pink, waaaaahhhhhhhhh”; “It’s raining!!Waaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”; “I don’t want a baaaaaaaaaaatttthhhhhh!”; “I don’t want to wear those shooooooeeeeeeessssss!”. If the government bottled enough whinge they could have a serious defence weapon on their hands, parents all around the country would be raking it in. In reality whinge has no effective use other than being seriously fudging annoying.
Questions asked – Baby 0 / Toddler 99
Once again toddlers win this hands down. When they’re not asking a question they are thinking about their next question. If they are unable to think of anymore (as rare as a lunar eclipse) they turn to the trusty filler phrase we all know too well – “Mummmmyyyyy?” / “Daddddddyyyy?” Once those words leave their mouths we know in t-minus 3 seconds there’s going to be a “Can I have a biscuit?”, “Why do cows moo?”, “Can a cat and a dog have babies together?”, “Why is grass green?. We feel the panic, the pressure not to give them a bullshit answer and definitely not the “Just because…” answer (although after the 100th, ok then 50th question of the day this is a completely acceptable response). Google has possibly made most of its earnings based on panicked parents around the world. This is further proven by the fact if you type ‘Why’ in the search box; the first question to come up is ‘Why is the sky blue?’ now that has quizzed and unsure parent written all over it.
Mummy Vs Daddy Trumps
Time to self – Mummy 20 / Daddy 60
What is this time to self thing? It sounds delightful. Once children arrive on the scene time to oneself is, well…limited. A once very private visit to the porcelain throne is now a social gathering where the kids continuously fetch their detached toy car wheels, dried up Playdoh and usually the loudest VTech toy they can muster for your viewing ‘pleasure’; A hot cup of tea once leisurely sipped whilst relaxing on the sofa watching back to back episodes of ‘Masterchef’ is soon replaced by lukewarm tea drunk in between changing nappies, picking up toys, and watching ‘I Can Cook’. Its official the ‘time to self’ moments for a mummy are not exactly relaxing. During the very the rare moment when the kids nap (after a well deserved fist pump) do mums relax? Nope they do jobs, think washing the car, cleaning the house, painting, jet washing the patio, making the tea, scraping crusty Weetabix off the floor/chair/table etc. It’s a fact that some of us actually go to work for a break, the chance to drink a hot cup of tea and to have a wee in private, ah bliss. So where does Daddy time to self come into this? Well perhaps I should have called this Trump ‘Time spent on the toilet’ (No pun intended). Somehow Daddy’s toilet time is sacred and long, oh so bloody long. Seriously who takes that long to take a dump? In reality I think probably 30% is pooping time and 70% is faffing on phone time, but who can blame them, we all have to have our little pleasures when we can manage to grab them. It’s a fact, daddies can hands down beat baby and toddler in the pooping stakes.
Showers taken – Mummy 40 / Daddy 70
One of the most frustrating things a mum can experience is when Daddy walks in after a day at work and declares “I’m just off for a shower”, all made worse by the fact that mummy has spent all day at home with the kids and has had zero opportunity to get a clean (making a third day Glastonbury reveller look pristine). Poor mum has been waiting all day for that special Timote moment, yet he waltzes in clearly not picking up on the fact flies are now circling her. All to be made worse by the fact he’s going to spend at least 45 long minutes ‘having a poo’ before his rather lengthy shower*Rolls eyes*
Gym membership usage – Mummy 25 / Daddy 75
Happy Days, Cheeky Monkeys, Rascals just a few names of ‘Gyms’ this mummy has stepped into recently. These gyms don’t harbour the weightlifter’s, protein shake drinkers, and the lycra clad toned crew you’d normally associate with the gym, no these contain tired looking parents watching on whilst their children run around and swing on various items like chimps. The closest thing to exercise is the parent squat, ‘sit down to a drink of tea, stand up to go save child dangling from the top of the climbing frame, sit down to have a sip of tea, stand up to stop child pushing another child on account of them having sharing issues, sit down to have a sip of tea, stand up to retrieve child from the top of the climbing frame due to sudden declaration of needing a wee/poo, sit down to drink cold tea’. The only thing that comes out lighter at the end of the session is a purse. The regular gym usage is probably the reason why daddy Wobbles looks like a model off the front cover of Men’s Health and the regular Play Gym usage (and cake eating) is more than likely the reason mummy Wobbles looks more like a Teletubby on the front of CBeebies Magazine.
Fun Factor – Mummy 65 / Daddy 85
It’s pretty hard to be fun and enthusiastic when your kids have just emptied their entire box of Paw Patrol jigsaw pieces all over the floor for the third time followed by an epic chalking session on the wall. It can be bloody frustrating and stressful at times so we have to be forgiven for not always wanting to build a giant cushion tower and being jumped on whilst the ‘bad’ guys go “POW POW POW! “. When mums are fun we really bloody are, baking cakes, making dinosaurs out of loo rolls, jumping in puddles, painting, and if we’re feeling really crazy we even let the kids mix the Playdoh. So what gives Daddy the edge? Well for one they’re daft as brushes, but they’re also a bit more inclined to take risks, and let’s face it kids love a bit of danger. The first time I saw my husband fling our little boy up in the air I nearly had a pulmonary, but my little boy couldn’t get enough “More, more!” We could probably all learn something from each other, perhaps us mums should be a little more wild and try not turn into the Riskinator (The risk assessment robot), dads maybe you could just adopt a little bit of Riskinators pre risk and safety analysis?
So there you have it, your introduction to the world of Tot Trumps. The only good thing around these days with the word Trump in.
Gem (aka ColleysWobbles)
This post was originally featured on Meet Other Mum’s #mumtribe
I love my husband dearly, he’s my rock, and all that lovey dovey blurb… but some nights I want nothing more than to roundhouse him to the floor! (Before you start, I don’t condone violence and I would never actually do it, but imagining it in the style of a Peter Griffin/Family Guy cut away clip makes it ok, right?).
Tonight is a prime example. The two children (I’d once lovingly lugged around like an overweight gorilla for 18 long months, propelled into the world in the most undignified and painful way from my noo noo, and sacrificed my once pert boobs to) have told me more than enough times this evening, “No Mummy I don’t want you I want Daddyyyyyyy!!!” accompanied with a scowl the grumpy cat would be proud of.
Granted, it’s not entirely Daddy’s fault he is awesome and very cuddly, but it still doesn’t stop me from wanting to get all Chuck Norris on his ass!
All I wanted was a cuddle, but instead I got a wriggling octopus with a one word Daddy Dictionary. Grrr!
So yes, I’ll put my hands up and admit it. I’m jealous! How does he do it? Am I doing something wrong? Am I too strict? Is it because I’ve gone back to work and they’re mad at me? Is it because they genuinely don’t love me as much? #mumguilt
In all honestly I don’t know why. I am however starting to realise that life as a family isn’t all Von Trap sing-alongs whilst parading through the meadows hand in hand, and I’d question anyone who said otherwise.
The faultless pictures you see on Instagram aren’t real. Mr and Mrs Perfect’s model family photo frolicking in a strawberry field was probably taken on their twenty second attempt on account of joyful Johnny shoving strawberries up his nose and sweet Susie flashing her knickers for the thirtieth time.
Before we had the boys I remember saying to people “We never argue, we get on so well, we’re best mates, blah blah blah“. Post kids, were still best mates, but argue? We do now. I’m not talking the dramatic Eastenders throwing plates at the wall “Ger art of ma pub!” type arguing, but we do have our disagreements and fall outs like most people. Why? Here’s a bit of parental maths:
Another thing that adds to the ‘parent crap’ is the resentment. I never thought I’d resent their Daddy for going to work, but I remember thinking he was staying late at work to check out the hot toned girls who actually had time for the gym (unlike his baby bellied wife). I thought it was his way to avoid the crazy bedtime routine, but in actual reality he was working his backside off to pay bills and keep his job.
On the flip side he resented me for staying at home with his two little boys having all of that time to make memories whilst he was at work. A vicious cycle. The only way to avoid it crumbling is to tell yourself your both in it together. You’re a team. A family team.
So whether my little snot rockets are Daddy’s boys or Mummy’s boys it doesn’t matter, we’re a team, a unit, and they will have our undying love until the day we are no more.
(Seriously though kids, you best start giving me more cuddles or Daddy’s never going to get another cup of tea).
I’m very proud to be part of the Meet Other Mums #blogsquad you can find my original blog on their fantastic webpage http://meetothermums.com
We’ve had this very posh plonk for nearly a year so it seemed wrong not to drink it on a night away from parental duties.
Will it be drunk on a yacht whilst bikini clad babes and six pack toned hunks parade their assets whilst listening to the latest funky house beats from a French DJ spotting a man bun and ray bans?
No, it will be drunk lukewarm from plastic wine glasses in a standard double hotel room (bought through Groupon of course, we’re not made of money you know) whilst watching the Chase and Pointless. Why I hear you ask? Because that’s how we roll, it’s time to wind down, and quite honestly we’ve forgotten what it’s like not to be asked for cheese and juice every two minutes.
Gone are the days of bikini clad yacht posing (although if I’m honest I’ve never done it, the closest I ever got was having a cup of tea on the ferry to Bruges). This is reality, and I’m good with that.
Secret Agents might not all have the same ability as Ethan Hunt climbing an 828m tall building, or the je ne sais quoi of Mr Bond emerging from the sea in ridiculously tiny trunks (I may have re-wound that moment back a few times to check where the beach was, obviously), but we all know they’re out there somewhere doing super top secret stuff to ensure the safety of the nation and to prevent the likes of evil chair wielding cat strokers.
Usually Secret Agents are 21 and over, but what if the information and intelligence gathering duties were passed over to the likes of toddlers? “What?” I hear you cry, well read on and you shall discover why toddlers would make great secret agents.
1. Anyone who owns a toddler in this current day and age will know that they seem to be born with built in technology and swipe intelligence. Whether it’s a phone, a tablet, a tracking device, a radio transmitter, or a Single Digit Sonic Agitator, the kids are all over it.
2. They have supersonic hearing especially when the word chocolate, sweet or anything remotely unworthy of little ears is uttered.
3. Toddlers have the ability to fit and hide into the tightest of spaces. They are best at doing this in busy social situations, any clothes packed sale rails, signs, and doors are a preferred choice of camouflage.
4. “Awww look at her, look at her wittle chubby chops, she’s soooo cute” BOOOOOOOM! You picked the wrong toddler to get all cutesy with. Cute kids, what a way to lull the enemy into a false sense of security.
5. Deadly poo and farts with the incredible ability to empty a room in t-minus two seconds. How a small person can make a stench a farty pig would be proud of is beyond belief.
6. Nocturnal ability. Night or day, who cares when you’re a toddler, if you want to have a tantrum about a toy helicopter at 4am in the morning then who cares because you’re a toddler and time means sh*t. Night missions, no problem.
7. 20/20 eyesight. The unbelievable ability to spot a toy/sweet/chocolate/train/aeroplane/parent eating chocolate (delete as necessary) from miles away.
8. Fluent in a number of languages, primarily English with a smattering of gobbledygook.
9. Courage, I’m not talking the Lion from The Wizard of Oz courage, I’m talking the no fear when jumping off the top of a table/chair/climbing frame/stairs/bed (the list is endless) kind of courage. This also relates to the courage of not giving an actual damn, for example asking a lady why she’s sat in a wheelchair and why that man’s so fat (cringe).
10. And finally the constant questioning, oh god the constant questioning *grabs wine and takes a glug*. If there’s one thing toddlers are sh*t hot at, it’s asking questions…all of the time.
Imagine the scene
In a room a suspected drug lord is sat across from a intrigued toddler.
Toddler: “What’s a drug lord?“, “What’s a drug lord?“, “What’s a drug lord?“, “What’s a…”
Suspected drug lord: “Somebody please stop this kid!”
Toddler: “Are you a drug lord?“, “Are you a drug lord?“, “Are you a drug lord?”
*The suspected drug lord shakes and wipes the sweat from his brow*
Toddler: “Are you a drug lord?“, “Are you a drug lord?“, “Are you a drug lord?“, “Are you a drug lord?”
Suspected Drug Lord: “YESSSS, someone shut this kid up, I confess, YESSSSS I’m a drug lord!”
The struggle is real, being an over questioned parent, not a drug lord obviously.
So there you have it, toddlers would make pretty valuable additions to the secret service no doubt about it. Although you’re not having mine MI5, I’ll put up with the questioning, chocolate/sweets radar, and atomic farts for a little while longer, you can have Mr Bond back.