Tim is currently at a stage of his development which I shall probably enjoy remembering later - because it is over. Let's call it the "farty phase", which appears to be part and parcel of every child’s drawn out process of language acquisition. Every rapper in Berlin is an aesthete when compared to my son.

In the mornings, when Tim tramples over my legs into my bed, he joyfully shouts "Helloooo fart face"! But I am not a fart face, I am his father. And I make that quite clear to him. Needless to say that for his mother he also has some very special literary creations at his fingertips ... most of these creations are based on bodily orifices and excretory processes. That’s not very pleasant.

Why can't he invent nicknames which we like? Why doesn't he just call me "flower dad"? The kindergarten teacher deemed this normal when I approached her on the matter. I don't care, so I decided to courageously counter my son's behaviour and to impose punishment for swear words if need be.

However, I unfortunately lack sufficient authority to implement this. I am not particularly good at punishing. Moreover, a psychologist once told me that small children do not understand punishment as such anyway. It just doesn't help! Actually, keeping to sanctions is tougher on the parents than on their children, especially the enforcement of a TV ban. Would you keep that up stringently on a Sunday morning at 8 am? No? See what I mean? So I decided to play it by ear.

Tim is currently going through a phase which I will probably like to look back on – once it’s over. Let’s call it the ‘poo phase’, one that seems to be part of the gradual process of language acquisition which all kids go through. My son makes an urban rapper sound eloquent.

Every morning when Tim scrambles over my legs to join me in my bed, he greets me with a jolly “Hi there, poo face.” But I’m not a poo face, I’m his dad. As I keep telling him. Needless to say, he has also coined a special term for his mother, too… and most of the words he dreams up seem to be based on bodily orifices and excreta. Not very nice.

Why can’t he think of a more pleasant nickname? Why can’t I be “flower daddy” or something? It’s not uncommon, says the woman at play school when I ask her. But I don’t care what she says; I decided to do something about my son’s behaviour and if need be, to impose punishment for bad language.

The trouble is, I’m not all that big on discipline. I’ve never been very good at meting out punishment. Apart from which, a psychologist once told me that toddlers simply don’t respond to punishment. It doesn’t do any good anyway and forbidding things is harder on the parents than it is on the children, especially when we are talking about television. Do you really want to enforce a ban at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning? Of course not. So I decided to take a softly, softly approach.

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.

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.

Tim is currently in a developmental stage that will only become a fond memory once it’s over. Let’s call it the "poopie" phase, ostensibly a component of every child’s long and wearisome language acquisition process. Compared to my son, Berlin rappers are pure aesthetes.

Trampling his way over my sleepy legs each morning, he chirps: “Helloooooo, poopie–boopie!” And I hasten to remind him that I am, in fact, not a “poopie-boopie,” but a dad. Needless to say, his dear mother is subjected to her own arsenal of monikers ... most of these verbal creations, alas, deal with bodily orifices and bowel movements. Not nice stuff.

Why can’t he come up with cute, loving nicknames like “Daisy Dad” or “Posy Pop”? Because this is totally normal, replied his kindergarten teacher. Since I didn’t care about “normality” at this point, I boldly opted to confront my son’s behavior and, worst case scenario, make the use of bad words punishable by law.

Yet I admit that I’m not good at being the judge — I simply lack the authoritativeness. What’s more, a psychologist informed me that small children do not handle punishment well. It gets you nowhere and sticking to the conditions becomes harder for the parents than the children. Especially true, for instance, when revoking television privileges: do you really see yourself getting up at 8 o’clock on a Sunday to rain on the cartoon parade? No way. And there you have it. For that reason I decided to play it by ear.

Right now Tim is going through one of those stages of development that I will later fondly remember – because it’s over. Let’s just call it the “fart phase”, that seems to be a part of every child's lengthy language acquisition process. Any rapper on the streets of Berlin is an aesthete compared to my son.
Tim clambers across my legs in bed in the morning, happily shouting “helloo, farty pants!” But I’m not “farty pants” – I’m his father, which I tell him. Not surprisingly he’s also got a special creation for his mother… Most of his word creations are based on bodily openings and excretory processes. This is not nice.
Why can’t he make up nice nicknames, ones we’d like to hear? Why can’t I just be “top dad”? I asked his Kindergarten teacher about it and she said it is normal. Undaunted, I decided to counter my son’s behaviour by dishing out punishments for bad language when necessary.
Unfortunately however, I lack authority. I’m not very good at punishing. Not to mention that a psychologist once explained to me that small children simply don’t understand punishment. It doesn’t work, and applying sanctions is much harder on the parents than the children, especially if the punishment includes a ban on television. Would you still stick to that ban at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning?
No? Well then. I decided to tread a little more carefully in the future.

Tim is currently going through a developmental phase that I’ll sure be glad to reminisce about someday – because we’ve gotten it behind us. We’ll call it the “farty phase” – the part of the prolonged process of language acquisition that each child apparently goes through. For my son, every rapper in Berlin is a verbal connoisseur.

In the mornings as Tim scrambles over my legs to visit me in bed, he greets me with a cheerful: “Helloooo fart-face.” But I’m not a fart-face. I’m a father. And I tell him that. I hardly need to mention that he’s also got some highly creative vocabulary set aside for his mother … Most of his lexical creations are based on the body’s various orifices and processes for excreting bodily wastes. This is not appealing.

Why can’t he find some nicknames that people like to hear? Why can’t I simply be “Flower Daddy”? His kindergarten teacher said it’s quite normal when I asked her about it. But I don’t care. So I've decided to boldly confront my son’s behavior and to impose punishment for bad language if necessary.

Unfortunately, I’m lacking a little in the authority department. I’m not really all that good at punishment, and besides, a psychologist once told me that small children can’t really understand punishment anyway. It’s ineffective, and maintaining sanctions is tougher on the parents than it is on the children, especially when it comes to forbidding TV. Do you really want to hold them to that at 8 o’clock on Sunday morning? No? So you see what I mean. I decided, therefore, to proceed with a reasonable sense of proportion.

Tim is currently in a stage of his development that I will remember with affection in the future only because it is over. Let's call it the "fart phase", and it seems to be an unavoidable step in the ongoing process of speech acquisition of every child. Compared to my son, every Berlin rapper is an orator.

In the morning, when Tim scrambles over my legs to reach me in bed, he cries gleefully: "Hallooo fart face." But I am not a fart face. I am a father. And I tell him this. Need I mention that he has also invented a very special name indeed for his mother . . . Most of his new phrases are based on bodily orifices and excretory processes. That is not particularly pleasant.

Why can he not come up with a term of affection that is easy on the ear? Why can I not be simply "flower father"? In response to my enquiries his nursery nurse assured me that this was quite normal. It's all the same to me, so I decided to approach my son's behaviour with courage and, where necessary, to impose punishments for rude words.

Unfortunately I lack the required authority. I am not particularly good at punishing. And besides, a psychologist once explained to me that small children are at a complete loss with punishments. It doesn't improve the situation and parents find it harder than children to adhere to sanctions, especially if we're talking about a television ban. Could you stick to this at, say, eight o'clock on a Sunday morning? No? Well then. I decided to proceed with moderation.