Pudd’ng believes that I know everything

If you are the easily-irritable type, staying with the kids for one long holiday will cure you of your Mr Grouch tendencies.

During the holidays, I found out that repeating instructions was the order of the day. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was doing the same in my sleep.

It is not that Pudd’ng doesn’t know where we put stuff. She’s just being a kid. I guess. So, not to shout myself hoarse or lose my cool, I kept telling myself that by constantly repeating myself, I was exercising my vocal chords.

There are times I got tired of these forced exercises, and I exercised my parental right to scream, something that motivated.

Pudd’ng to style up for a minute, before my stylus started working on some other broken record.

Get ready to sound like an answering machine

Nowadays, Pudd’ng’s new way of starting a question is, “How come…?” Sometimes she drops this line even for what seems obvious. But I have found out that to kids, the line between the obvious and the obscure can be blurred.

The questions can come thick and fast. Some questions make me turn in my seat, like when, after a news item on TV, Pudd’ng asked, “What is FGM?” I had to think fast. Debating whether to give her the meaning of the initials or not.

My answer? The truth. Okay, some truth. Without giving away too much. “FGM is something a father shouldn’t allow to be done to their daughter.”

Get ready to be the pick-after-me guy

Kids have this habit of leaving clothing, toys and whatnots strewn all over the house. For my daughter, it is her dolls and the doll’s clothes, which she leaves wherever. Other times, I find the “limbs” of the dolls under the sofa, or next to the radio.

Even with all the spring-cleaning that we did with Pudd’ng in her bedroom the other day; I still do some picking up after her. Again, to console myself, I tell myself that by bending and picking up after her, I am exercising.

That’s before my lower back gets the better of me and I tell the little clutter chick to style up.

Get ready to be the complaints department

The queries come when something that is even out of my control happens, like when Reddy Kilowatt does his disappearance acts. Or if some cartoon channels are not showing because of the service provider’s issues.

My daughter believes that dad must know what’s going down, and have a solution for it.

When ants make a beeline near the sink, she wants to know what exterminator-daddy will do about it, or if her temperature has risen and without a thermometer or medical knowledge, she expects me to diagnose and treat her immediately.

Thing is, Pudd’ng thinks that I know everything. Which is a big fat lie.

Get ready to sound like your mother

“Girl, I wasn’t born yesterday,” I tell Pudd’ng when she tries to bamboozle me. That’s the same mantra my mama used whenever I tried to pull wool over her eyes.

“Girl, stop complaining and be thankful,” I took another mantra from mama’s book and gave it to Pudd’ng the other Sunday as we waited for the bus to go to church; dishing her a rundown of chores I had done since morning.

We had hardly waited for 10 minutes, and she was already complaining that she was tired.

Get ready to be speaking to yourself like you’ve lost it

Freedom of speech. First Amendment. Thinking aloud. Whatever you may call it; it is one and the same thing. You’re speaking to yourself, or talking to inanimate things like a menu.

Many times, I find myself speaking to myself when I am wondering about, say, how to cook a certain dish.

“Dah-dee?” Pudd’ng will say when she runs to the kitchen, thinking I am speaking to her. “What are you saying?”

Get ready to sniff around like a private eye

Knowing that for Pudd’ng anything goes, I have to always wear my private eyes, in all the rooms, all the time. For instance, if she stays too long in the bathroom, and I hear or smell no “activity”, I’ll shout, “What are you up to in there?”

That’s when I’ll hear the toilet flushing. Going in to “gather evidence”, like I did one time after she had been in the bathroom for yonks, I found a blob of mashed toilet paper under the air freshener.

Apparently, she had been doing some impromptu papier-mâché, before I pooped on her party.