Tim is currently going through a phase which I will probably love later – for the simple reason that it’s over. Let’s call it the "fart phase" – that stage which seems to be part and parcel of the protracted language-acquisition process every child goes through. Compared to my son, Berlin’s rappers look like amateurs.
Each morning in bed, as Tim stumbles over my legs on his way to greet me, he calls out joyously: “Hullo Fartface!” But I’m not a fartface; I’m a father. And I tell him so. Needless to say, Tim has also devised a very special greeting for his mother...
As the majority of Tim's neologisms involve orifices and bodily functions, the whole thing is really quite unpleasant.
Why can’t he come up with terms of endearment that are easy on the ear? Why can’t I just be "Flowerdad”? When I mentioned the problem to his nursery teacher, she said it was normal for a child of his age. Normal or not, I decided to take a courageous stand against my son’s behaviour and, if necessary, to impose punishments for the use of bad words.
I am, however, not authoritative enough to do this. Discipline isn’t really my strong point. And anyway, a psychologist once told me that small children are incapable of grasping the concept of punishment. Sanctions serve no purpose, and upholding them is harder for the parents than for the children – particularly where banning television is concerned. Would you, for example, feel like upholding that one at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning? No? I didn’t think so. I therefore decided to keep things in perspective.