Reservoir Dad’s Question Nightmares

Sometimes after a long 12 – 16 hour day with kids you just want to ship them off to bed as quick as possible so that you can clean and sweep and fold and stuff and crash in front of the TV for some well-deserved Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. (Me and Gordon Ramsay are so alike it’s scary. Sometimes he points at some dull space cadet and says something like ‘You’re a fucking idiot’ and I can’t help but chuckle in amazement at how I was thinking the exact same thing.)

It’s when you’re absolutely knackered and pressured for time like this that you’re less likely to patiently answer a child’s left-field questions in a rational manner. And this may explain my response to Archie’s question ‘how do our eyeballs get inside our heads’ while we were cleaning our teeth last night.

It is a very good question and sits comfortably aside such classics as ‘Why is everything so green?’, ‘Why doesn’t my shoe have teeth?’ and ‘How come Gran is getting smaller?’

All home Dads know that questions like these are much easier to handle after several beers and a six pack of Red Bull but they weren’t within reach and, anyway, Archie’s going to have to wait until he’s sixteen to start experimenting with alcohol and stimulants (okay, okay – fourteen, by today’s standards, but don’t let them listen to the IPod too loud alright, it’ll damage their ears!)

So anyway, Archie asks me how our eyeballs get inside our heads and I tell him that the Porcelain Doctor, who makes little boys, collects the crystallized raindrops that fall from the sky after meteors smash though the clouds. Then he dips one end of each raindrop in either blueberry sauce, chocolate pudding or green stuff and pops them into our skulls.

I thought that might give him something to think about while he got to brushing his teeth but instead he put his toothbrush down, touched the side of his eye and said, ‘I want to take them out’.

I could hear the clock ticking and Gordan Ramsay standing behind me saying, ‘Are you a fucking nitwit, get him to bed for fuck’s sake’ and I turned the toothbrush over and said, ‘You can gouge your eyes out with this, or you can wait until tomorrow and I’ll buy you some marbles.’

Thankfully he chose the marble option and we got off to bed quick-smart so that ‘tomorrow will come quicker’.

Later that night Gordon Ramsay slapped his hand in frustration and said, ‘Fuck me!’