- First of all. Despite the horrific rumours and some of the shit Google tells you… Four is actually on the whole easier than three.
- They never shut up and they can run really bloody fast, but there’s Paw Patrol for that. In fact there’s Paw Patrol for pretty much everything now. P-p-p pa-pa please-continue-entertaining-my child-so-I-don’t-need-to-do-any-actual-real-parenting patrol…
- They are actually quite helpful at passing you stuff, fetching the post, finding their own carpet raisins etc… Except for when it REALLY matters… Like when the baby has projectile pooed into your mouth and you ask them to pass you the baby wipes RIGHT NOW. MUMMY REALLY NEEDS THEM RIGHT NOW PLEASE NOOOOWWW… But apparently they’re ‘busy’. And their legs are too tired for that because watching Paw Patrol. Shit that’s back fired. Shit.
- You’ll remember the exact moment your ovaries shrivel up and die for once and all, as they announce on a Saturday morning that they’re actually all good for cuddles right now and will be in their room on the iPad if you need them… *sobs*
- The tantrums may be few and far between these days but when they come… THEY ARE ALL UP IN YOUR SHIT. Their will be finger pointing, head bobbing, teeth sucking and eye rolling. Oh yeah. It’s prison rules now… There’ll be no blinking and you’ll need to count the kitchen knives before going to bed…
- There is no such thing as asking too many times ‘When am I going to school Mummy?’. Apparently.
- You don’t get to choose their clothes any more. Ever.
- You have new lies. Father Christmas is threat 365 days of the year, and generally ‘the policeman’ works for all situations. As obviously their key responsibilities outside of fighting serious crime are making sure pre-schoolers eat their carrots and get their fucking shoes on…
- Look forward to some seriously awkward and prolonged conversations in public toilets when you’ve not had a wax for a while…
- You’ve entered the era of the sticker annual now. And you’re going to have to deal with the fact that not one of those little bastards will be stuck in straight. And you’ll be needing a lot of gin for that.
- Poos need privacy now. Theirs that is. Not yours. That would be fucking ridiculous.
- Mainly. Hula Hoops.