In conversation with an excellent soon-to-be colleague brought up this little exchange."Scary, do you ever punish your kids in ways that aren't really punishments?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know - refuse them some sort of treat because it's too much like hard work."
"I'm going to blog this. NOW."
I'm a parent.
A scheming, devious cruel-to-be-kind parent of two scheming, devious almost-but-not-quite teenagers who'd bludgeon me into an early grave given half the chance.
It is an absolute given that I'd do anything to give myself and the fragrant Mrs Duck an easier life.
Anything.
By way of example:
Me: "Right! That's it! I'm not taking you swimming"
Translation: Because, frankly, I'd rather eat my own foot than catch some hideous water-borne disease whilst avoiding old ladies getting the only lengths they'll see this side of doomsday. No pool.
Me: "Right! That's it! We're not going for a bike ride!"
Translation: Because you always bugger off onto your PlayStation as soon as we get home leaving me to scrape every dog turd in Weymouth off your tyres
Me: "Right! That's it! I'm not going to help re-arrange your bedroom!"
Translation: "What do you keep in your wardrobe? Lead weights? Last time I had to move that I couldn't walk for a week"
Me: "Right! That's it! No McDonalds!"
Translation: Because I had a sneaky quarter-pounder with fries on the way home from work tonight, and frankly, guilty pleasure or not, I'm stuffed
Me: "Right! That's it! You're not going on the internet"
Translation: Because it's the Devil's own work to get you off Club Penguin at bed time so I can download faked pornographic pictures of Nigella Lawson. And Kirstie Allsopp. And Sarah Beeny. And (new entry at number four) Amanda Lamb
Said too much.
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