The rise of the little sods, gits & b**tards

Oh God, something has happened. It comes around once a year.

This year it was number five. I’ve managed to level myself up to the achievement of a five-year-old.

FIVE!! Wut?

One minute we’re thinking babies are a brilliant idea, plastic sticks get wee stripes and before we know it our downstairs are ruined (and I’m not just talking about the living room carpet if you have a home birth). You’re spending a blur of years between food, poo, blood, tears (both of those mainly your own) and other sticky substances.

During these five years, for reasons I won’t lay out here, Jim has remained an only child. He’s also an only grandchild on both sides. That usually means we are not in short supply of ‘stuff’ – books, clothes, every kind of toy, the list goes on. As an only child myself I can tell you it’s an occupational hazard but not necessarily a bad one. However, when birthdays and Christmas rolls around it becomes increasingly hard to find appropriate things that aren’t just there for the sake of having something to unwrap.

That’s why, this year, he ended up with lots of TINY LITTLE BASTARDS.

This may be something we could have avoided. His main influence is *twirls* me and even though I’m a tomboy type, my brain and hand eye coordination will never be up for video games. However, Jim is under a very different kind of influence due to the weird layout of our family – that of a 10-year-old uncle.

Skylanders are King. Disney Infinity is Queen.

That’s not too bad. It’s not the most expensive to get started. It can be added to fairly inexpensively for Christmas or good school reports. Let’s do it.

It was a brilliant idea until the weekend. Mainly because it was all hiding at Nannys. Then the boxes begin to appear. Box after box appeared from carrier bags, waiting to be opened by frustrated five-year-old hands, the cardboard back then separated from the plastic ready for recycling and any useless instructions put into another environmentally friendly pile.

That’s not even the worse bit. The bit I did not think through.


I then realise that my brain has reached capacity. Thomas the Tank Engine and every living thing he’s ever made contact with is stored in my brain – names, blood/fuel types, dating history. The same goes for Paw Patrol. PJ Masks. Plus all the code names he’s ever used for any of them.

We’ve also just started watching Inside Out which I think is genius but I’ll be damned if I can recall every bloody personality island in 13 seconds under highly intense conditions whilst buttering a sandwich.

I can’t do it.

The panic sets in. How will I know which ones are missing? I can’t even remember how many there were, never mind how many vehicles versus characters and then their names when they’re subsequently asked for. I don’t want to get the brunt of the cross child stare when I don’t get the right one first time. That stare is scary (he gets it from me – so proud).

The Skylanders have eventually found a home in a box where the lid will only shut if you put them in the right way – I haven’t quite lost that mum skill yet.

However, apparently Smyths had a sale on Disney Infinity – THANKS SMYTHS.


And not the kind I will recognise – oh no.

No Toy Story here. No Olaf (although that has been donated now by some kind soul at Mr Walsh’ work *thanks*). Not one character I can remember. All brand new tiny gits who I have to remember the name of. Even if I can take a guess my eye sight isn’t what it used to be. Black Venom Spiderman and Black Panther might as well be the same person unless they’re a metre from my eyeballs.

So, we are now the proud owners of a Nike shoebox full of Disney Infinity characters (I’ve lost count, f**k it) and a happy five-year-old. Darth Maul has already lost one end of his lightsaber in an unseen accident.

God bless boys. Boy mum veterans never said it would be easy, but they said it would be worth it. Drunk hippy bastards.


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