My one-year-old son would prefer to toddle around with my phone held in the crook of his neck whilst he babbles away, rather than play with an entire bedroom full of age specific toys.
He can’t even talk.
My three-year-old daughter has found different functions on our iPad that I didn’t know existed.
Or have any idea how to replicate.
And the pair of them think the remote control is the gateway to their eternal happiness.
I’ve become a fucking i-parent and I didn’t even see if happening.
Black plastic with buttons or a screen tops wooden toys or drawing for them- every time.
And it makes me wonder what messages I must be sending out to them everyday.
How many times my daughter asks me to watch her as she stands on one leg or spins round in circles and I’m casually scrolling through Facebook.
Or pushing my son along in the pram whilst quickly checking if I’m still winning the pair of French Connection jeans on the E-bay app on my phone which I a) can’t afford and am desperate that someone outbid me and b) will never fit into if I do, as I had a total body dysmorphia moment at 2am when I couldn’t sleep.
But, I feel like karma has finally bitten me on the ass.
My son has walked off with the remote control for the Virgin Media box and, try as I might to think like a one-year-old, have absolutely no idea where he has hid it.
Last time it was in his cot.
And the time before that, under the child step in the toilet.
But worse still, the TV is now stuck on channel 5 following a Milkshake marathon this morning.
So. If someone could tell me what happens in Humans this evening that would be fantastic.
I shall, instead, be thinking up ways to engage with my children that involves glue/ poster paint/ cardboard boxes/ loo rolls/ and a straw, as I can’t bear the thought that my daughter even knows what Netflix is, let alone requests it.
Following that I will be watching Police Interceptors Unleashed.
*PLEASE SOMEONE FIND THE REMOTE. I WILL PAY CASH…*