Parenting humor: Quiet please, people here are trying to party

Quiet please, people here are trying to party

I don't know where my four-year-old son Jack gets it from. Last night he told my wife Katherine a whopper of a fib about me.

"Has daddy been looking after you well?" Katherine asked him on the phone from Sydney where she is on business.

"Oh yes," said Jack very dryly.

"He's taken me to Questacon [a city children's science museum in Canberra], to Old McDonald's [McDonald's fast food] and he's letting me eat lots and lots and lots of chocolate."

It is a good thing for me that Katherine had only been gone a matter of hours, Jack had spent the day at his child-care centre and there is no way I could have done all of that with him.
Otherwise, he might have got me into big trouble.
My theory is that he was just trying to get back at me.

"I'm bored," Jack had said earlier, 2.1 seconds after I finished the last project I had started with him. "What can we do now, daddy?" What I really wanted to do was relax, make myself a coffee and sit and read the newspaper while he amused himself for half an hour. But I can remember being "bored" myself 37 years ago, and I know it is a genuine major issue for an overactive and impatient young mind.

"Would you like me to take you for a ride on your bike?" I said, with a sigh.

"To Questacon?" said Jack, his eyes lighting up.

"No, NOT to Questacon - it's far too far away to ride to."

"We'll go in the car then?"

"No. Not today," I said, gruffly. "It's probably closed by now anyway."

"We could ride to McDonald's?" Jack offered. "That's not far and it's nearly always open."

"No!"

"Hmm," Jack said. "I know what, daddy? I'll only come with you if we can stop at the shop and buy some chocolate?"

I knew this was coming.

The previous night, when tucking Jack into bed, I reminded him that mummy was going away tomorrow and we'd be baching.

"Do you know what baching means, Jack?" I asked, trying to work out if he knew the seriousness of our situation.

"Yes," he said solemnly. "It means we're going to eat lots and lots and lots of chocolate."

'No, it DOES NOT," I said. "And anyway, we don't have any chocolate.

"Well, I have an idea," Jack said. "You can buy some."

"No, I can't," I said. "You need money to buy chocolate and I haven't got any."

Money is still a difficult concept for Jack, but I am sure he thought I was telling fibs about not having any.
That's why he changed tack and tried to trick me into taking him to the shop on his bike.

"The answer is no, Jack. Mummy wouldn't like it either," I said. "I will take you for a bike ride but we are going no where near any shops."

Jack switched strategy again, this time to a last resort that I am sure he was sure would force my hand.
"Well, I don't like you any more, daddy," he said. "I only like mummy and I'm not going to invite you to my party."

"What party?" I asked.

"My birthday party in May," said Jack. "Only little boys will be allowed. You're too big."

This is not true.
I take the view that I will never be too grown-up to go to parties.
I love ice-cream, cake, chocolate when I can get it, and party hats. And playing pass the parcel is s-u-c-h fun.

"I didn't know we had started planning for your party," I said, taken aback.

"Where are you going to have it?"

Jack thought for a moment, obviously scanning his four-year-old brain for fun venues.
Finally he said: "The library, and there's going to be books too. But you can't come, naaaaah."

"The library!" I exclaimed. Who ever heard of having a child's birthday party at the library?

"We'll I don't want to go to your stupid party, anyway," I shot back.

Unless, of course, he changes the venue to Questacon or McDonald's.