Daddy's Little Helper

You get sort of inured to nappy changing after a while. Handling faeces becomes just another part of the day, a sort of ho-hum mental wallpaper task that you do without really thinking about. Meanwhile your brain can use the time for other, better, things, like planning what kind of kidney bean-based concoction your daughter can fling at the walls for dinner tonight, or whether or not you can get away without mopping the kitchen floor again today.

At which point, of course, some fresh hell will develop to wake you from your torpor.

F has decided that it is her solemn duty to aid in the wiping of her own bottom. This is most excellent in many ways, a real testament to her developing sense of altruism. In other ways, it's more similar to her recent discovery of how to use crayons. It's a very all-pervasive medium, shite. Long-lasting and attention grabbing. I can see why the UK government uses it in so many of their policies these days.

She likes helping. At least, she likes helping you do things. She doesn't like being helped. Usually because I get her intention all wrong. Shouldn't that sock stay on your foot, I might helpfully suggest. No, daddy, no, you are a bad person. Go away now. Or shouldn't you try and drink from the end of the bottle with the beaker spout on it? No. No, don't be stupid. I'm not trying to drink from it at all, moron, I'm trying to shake milk on table so I can draw with it.

F takes things in and out of the dishwasher. Or the washing machine. I brush my teeth at the same time as her. She grabs the handle to make sure I haven't missed my tonsils. Considerately, she will open doors that have been shut or shut doors you've left open. There is a high-level plan regarding air flow through the house at work here, I'm sure. Too high-level for me to fully comprehend, but still a plan.

Pushed for time when reading a book? F can cut your story in half, by helpfully turning ahead to the end, or even taking the book off you to read it herself, thanks, you're not doing the voices right, everyone knows owls sound like this: 'ming ming ming ming ming.'

Sandwich eating a real grind? Not anymore, with F! See the crusts you hated vanish under the table! Which isn't to say I try and feed my daughter the bits of my sandwich I don't want. There are no such bits in sandwiches, for one thing. And if there were, they wouldn't be the bits she asked for anyway. No, her taste in food follows one of two patterns, expressed by the following illogisms: -

F likes sweetcorn. 

I have prepared lunch with sweetcorn. 

Therefore, F no longer likes sweetcorn. 

F is enjoying her food

I am eating something different

Therefore I am no longer eating 

It's just amazing how much time we save together.