The Post where I think my son is actually a teenage midget

or an alternative title: The Post where if I had sent my kid to school and owned a TV I would be ruing that day....

My son, the dynamo, is showing signs of maturity. Not in a good way. Not in good stuff like being able to wipe his own bum and make his own meals. I mean, he has forwarded in attitude ten years whilst being held captive inside the body of a four year old. He is bigger than his boots suggest. I had thought that the teenage years would come when, you know, he was a teenager. But no. They have come a decade early in this house and he is practising with unrelenting enthusiasm his precision one-liner throwing - the darts of his mouth. Sample, if you will, the attitude problem which, heaven help me, can only get worse as he learns more words:



Me: Boss, do you mind - you've knocked that on the floor.

Boss: Yeah? And?


***


Me: Boss I don't like your behaviour. Would you like to goto your room?

Boss: Whatever.


***


Me: Boss you've dropped that book and you've ripped it.

Boss: So.


***


Me: Oh look, you've made Jaws cry

Boss: Who cares.


***


Me: Eat! Eat it now. Now!!

Boss: I am *not* going to do it. And you can't make me.


***


Me: Do you want me to help you do that?

Boss: No. You can't do it. You're a girl. Girl's can't do *anything* they can't.

Me: Yes they can!

Boss: No. They can't. They really can't. They just cry.


***


Boss: You pretend you're the doctor - no - wait - you're a girl, you be the nurse.

Me: ..er, girls *can* be doctors too.

Boss: No they can't.

Me: Yes. They can. My doctor is a lady.

Boss: *ignores me* Girls just aren't as good as me - because I'm a boy and boys are brilliant, it's just unbelievable.


***

Me: If you do that again I will send you to your room.

Boss: Do I look bovvered?


***


Me: Boss, please pick that up for me.

Boss: You dropped it. Pick it up yourself.


***


Yelp!