Kraken-lovers, I am at a crisis point. Yes, yes, another one. You see, Kraken Junior, my four year old spawn, has decided to push me so close to the edge that right now I am dangling from a cliff top by my cuticles and she is stamping on my hands. She is a beast and seeing as locking her in a cupboard is apparently frowned upon I am turning to my blog instead.
I tell you what, for a bright kid Kraken Junior can’t half be a complete tw*t from time to time. No, scrap that. I mean she can be a tw*t every day. Now, she is a creature of some fabulosity. She is happy and funny and clever and, in the presence of chocolate buttons, gloriously insane. Yet at some point every day she dumps her intelligence on the floor, sh-ts on it and proceeds to be completely and utterly thick. It’s as if someone flicked a switch in the fuse box in her head and turned her from a 100 watt bulb to a barely glowing match.
Worse her tomthickery applies to the very acts that she has practised every day from the moment she splattered from the explosion that is technically called my vagina. So even though I have made a second career from telling her to let me sh-t in peace, she still barges into the bathroom. Even though she will never, ever get more than two stories at bedtime (because by then my urge for rum is too strong to ignore) she still asks for more. And even though she knows that she needs to shut up when we’re talking about, say, suddenly dying relatives, she still interrupts to ask us how ladybirds eat when they’re wearing space helmets. Worse, all of this barkingness applies to going to bed, getting out of bed, getting dressed, getting undressed, keeping the water in the bath, taking off shoes, tormenting the cat and any number of activities that stand between me, her and an incident whereby I point to the pretty flowers and drive off when she’s not looking.
I don’t know whether she’s dim or just so tenacious that by the age of 15 she’d have formed her own East African dictatorship.
What I do know, though, is that she has located that part of my brain that contains patience, excavated it and infilled it with Womble hairs and the tears of dancing stoats. You know PSI? Pounds Square inch? F-ck that. I’ve modified this unit of measurement to read Patience Square Inch, so at any given moment you can stick a modified prong up my arse and find out how close I am to needing medical attention. So at teatime, it’s actually possible to measure exactly the amount of stupidity that Kraken Junior needs to display before I form an entirely new branch of physics from my own rage.
So something has got to give.
Either Kraken Junior ramps up her ability to keep the water in the bath to the same level as her writing and counting or I just accept that intelligence is no indicator of common sense. Either way, one of us must – and will – perish. In the meantime though, I reckon we’ll be giving CERN a run for its money by actually recreating sub-atomic explosions over trays of fishfingers. And that banging noise? That’ll be Kraken Junior stamping on my hands again and again and again…