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K is for Karate
Friday December 3, 2004
(or How my kid learnt to swear)
My darling three year old has always had some pretty innovative, if slightly tactless, ways of waking me up in the mornings.
Back in the days of nappies he (being Joshua) used to take great pleasure in sitting on my head with a full nappy which, whilst pleasingly warm, was a slightly more whiffy way to wake up than I would have preferred. From there we progressed to a good old fashioned slap on the face accompanied by the words "Wake up Daddy!". I have to give the boy credit, it's to the point and, as if in some strange attempt at denial of what he had just inflicted upon me or, perhaps, the first inklings of a darker sense of humour, he would often add, when I finally prized my eyes open, "Oh! You're awake Daddy!"... Ahem!
We are at the talking stage right now. He does not stop, life, it seems, needs a running commentary at the moment: "Look Daddy, I've got some jam sandwiches". "Oops! Daddy I just dropped the sandwiches on the new carpet". "Daddy, you haven't got boobs... Mummy has boobs but she doesn't have a winky". You know that sort of "matter of fact" thing. So that's what I've been getting in the mornings of late and I am cool with that, if not a little alarmed at how quickly kids grow up. That was until the beginning of this week when he came up with the ultimate wake up call for Daddies the world over.
It's an undeniably cruel and complex set up which, I have concluded, he must have sat up overnight working out. Note to self: Check chalk board for evidence of plotting. Actually, let me explain the principals here because if you have a spare 3 year old hanging around somewhere you might like to recreate the effect for yourself using a system of pullies and some string.
Back when I was a boy my Dad taught me a neat trick if you really want to hurt someone when you punch them, he taught me some basic physics. Rather than forming a full fist, he told me, you fold your fingers over but keep your knuckles out straight, a half fist if you like, thus forming a smaller surface area with which contact is made. The principal is really rather simple, although the area of impact is decreased, the pain is almost double due to the fact that the same amount of force is being applied to this smaller area, and yes, I can confirm it works, it hurts like hell. So that's the theory, force applied in a small area hurts like hell. Obviously Joshua is aware of this principal, I don't know maybe they taught him it at play group. However it came about is really irrelevant, more importantly he seems to have taken on board the fact that he has relatively small hands and feet and can apply them with some force.
His plot is a psychological one as well though, which is what makes it so cruel. It starts with him clambering into bed and sandwiching himself neatly between me and the Missus. Then the babble begins: Chat about this, chat about that, important stuff about ice cream makers and how he would make me ice cream if he had one. It's all soooo sweeeeet and so I roll over to face him, to give his words the full attention they clearly deserve (big mistake!). After a little while, the banter dries up and he appears to be falling back to sleep and so I take the opportunity for ten more minutes (note: I forget to roll back over). Of course, unbeknownst to me, this is all part of the bigger plan and it is at this point that he follows through with perfection. Looking back on it I wondered if it had been an accidental sort of star shaped yawning/stretching thing, but that can not have been the case as my Missus showed absolutely no signs of being involved in the incident, this again confirms my belief that it was a well thought out plot. For you see, it was at this moment, in a performance Bruce Lee would have been proud of, that my beloved son of three years delivered me with a perfectly synchronised K shaped move, bam! small fist to my face, small foot to my bollocks, with brutal force! This in itself is bad enough, here I am writhing around in agony but then to find that as the pain subsides it is replaced with pangs of anxiety and guilt that only an abused parent can understand was in itself another severe blow. For why? 3 year olds repeat everything and it was at this point that I left my son with no doubt as to the many ways in which you can creatively use the word fuck.
Someone once asked me if I enjoyed being a parent. The answer is very simple, not always, no!
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