I am NOT a park…

My toddler continues to insist on using me as her f**king park. It does my head in. I’m not sure what she sees when looking at me, but I have come to assume that to her, I’m a 5 foot 12 playground. Metal framed, I’m most certainly not. My partner would describe me more like a beer gutted oaf with a f**ked up back, and to be fair, she’s probably right.

Whether standing, laying or sitting down, she’s constantly clung to me, and when she isn’t, she can usually be found attached to my partner. Now don’t get me wrong, I adore that she loves us so much that she’s practically inseparable from us, but every now and then, it would be lovely not to have her foot embedded through my crotch. If it’s not a foot to the groin then it’s a knee to the side or a finger in the eye. I mean seriously, I’m bruising like a friggin’ peach.

At least the playground in a park has the wonderful fortune of being inanimate. Unfortunately for me, I’m alive enough to have to endure the non-stop, overly energetic, pain in the arse child that is climbing all over me.

As she grows older, she’s only getting heavier. My job description has now extended way past ‘father’. I’m now also a climbing frame, seesaw, roundabout, swing, balancing beam and even a friggin’ horse. I need it stop. I am NOT a park.

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