Tim is currently going through a stage in his development that I'll no doubt look back on later with gladness in my heart - gladness it's over, that is. Let's call it the "potty-mouth phase", a part of the drawn-out process of learning to talk that every child seems to go through. My son could make the most foul-mouthed rapper look like a choirboy.
"Hiya, Fartface!" is Tim's cheerful greeting when he clambers into my bed each morning. But I'm not a "fartface". I'm a father. And I tell him that too. Needless to say, he's also invented a "special" name for his mother. Most of his neologisms pertain to assorted body orifices and processes that involve the excretion of human waste. It's not pretty.
Why can't he make up NICE pet names? Why am I not just "Darling Daddy"? When I spoke to his kindergarten teacher about it, she told me it's quite normal. That makes no difference to me. I decided to bravely confront my son's behaviour and punish him for using bad language.
But unfortunately, I don't have the authority to do it. I'm not very good at punishment. In any case, a psychologist once told me that you can't start punishing children when they're little. It doesn't achieve anything and introducing sanctions is harder on parents than it is on children, especially if the children are not allowed to watch television. Are you going to stick to your guns at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning for instance? No? Well there you go. I therefore resolved to keep things in perspective.