No one expects the revolution. One moment you’re lighting cigars with bank notes on the balcony of your dictator’s mansion, laughing maniacally, the next the oppressed masses are bashing the doors down. Dictators are always complacent. I know I am.

I’m the deputy dictator of our little society. What I say goes. As long as I’ve checked it’s all right with my wife of course. She’s head dictator. But I’m definitely above the masses in our oppressive hierarchy. The masses, both of them, know they’re place. Well, they don’t, but they’re a lot smaller than me. I laugh and smoke cigars on the terrace of my dictator’s mansion while they burn effigies of me below.

When the oppressed throw off their shackles it’s invariably a result of the government’s broken promises. I promised my son we were going to see the dinosaurs. The fibreglass dinosaurs in a field at our local wildlife park. To say my son likes dinosaurs would be like saying the Pope likes Catholicism.

Because of my mismanagement we got to the park late. Then I squandered dinosaur time drinking coffee and chatting to other parents. Soon it was getting a bit late to see the dinosaurs. The masses were, to say the least, not happy about this.

I remained pretty complacent. My son’s roars of discontent were increasing, but I was still in charge. Nothing could change that. Dictators never get overthrown. Ever.

We got back to the car. My son was now apoplectic. I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if he had started breathing fire at me. But I was still in control.

It’s surprising how strong a two year old can be when he’s over throwing tyranny. It soon became clear, as he writhed and planked, moaning like a goose with a piano on it’s foot, that I physically couldn’t get him into his car seat.

Something frightening dawned on me. I was no longer in control. My dictatorship was over. It took half an hour to talk my son down as the car park got colder and darker. I finally broke his resolve by promising unlimited TV.

And he believed me. Mwahahaha.

“You never listen.” My wife says.

“That’s not true.” I say, pained by the injustice of her accusation. “I try really hard to listen. It’s just… you say so much.”

It’s this kind of moronic statement which gets me into my wife’s bad books. And, if I’m honest, she’s not entirely wrong. My mind wonders. My lack of mental focus is one of the reasons I’m not an astronaut or a brain surgeon. One of the many, many reasons.

It’s hard to pay attention to everything my son says, too. He’s spends quite a lot of time trying to bemuse me with strange statements while I’m trying to concentrate on something else.

“Daddy!” He says, voice raised. “Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!…”

“What?” I ask, startled, the vocal earlobe-flicking he is inflicting on me finally derailing my train of thought. “What is it, son?”

“What’s on my bottom?” He asks.

I blink at him. I try to process what he’s said, my brain still half in what I was doing before. “Err… what?”

“What’s on my bottom?” He asks again.

“Err…” I’m still not really listening. “Err… I don’t know, mate. Err… are you all right?”

He nods.

“All right then. Good boy.” He wanders off. I go back to my work.

Turns out I should have listened to what my son was trying to say.

I’m a big fan of dungarees, but they have their draw backs. One is that they give you access to your nappy. My son, being an inquisitive sort of little primate, had used this access to un-stick the sticky tabs on his nappy. A little later he returns. This time he’s walking a little funny.

“Daddy… Daddy… Daddy… Da-”

“Yes, son?”

“I’ve done a poo.”

I tap his bottom. “Can’t feel anything son.” I say. He looks at his shoe worriedly. There appears to be a medium sized potato lodged in the end of his trouser leg. It’s not a potato.

Lesson learned.

I’m not a person who frightens easily.

Well, actually I get frightened very easily, but not normally by water. Swimming is great, and when you’re underwater no one can demand that you turn on the telly or smear you in humus or pluck out your neck hair. It’s lovely.

The other day, though, water was terrifying.

Obviously it is impossible to take a two year old and a one year old swimming at the same time, on your own. Except I had seen Mum’s do it. I am a Dad. What a Mum can do, a Dad can do. Theoretically.

The swim session was at midday. Stupidly, I decided not to put my grumpy, surly, teething one year old daughter down for her nap. This made her very, very angry. Excellent work Daddy. She then helped me get ready by chasing me around the house like a crawling air raid siren, increasing my general sense of panic.

Obviously, she fell asleep on the journey to the pool. I knew her rage at being woken again would crack the earth in two. Well done Daddy.

Then a miracle happened. As I heaved her chunky thighs into her little yellow inflatable island, she stopped crying. Then for the whole session she drifted around the pool like a serene, amphibious, ginger Buddha, bobbing along and giggling, her legs waggling beneath her. Even my son was a delight, splashing and playing and being friendly and happy.

I was on a high as the session ended.

Then I found myself trapped in a cold, wet cubical with two shivering, angry, wet children, and the hell began. As I dressed my son my daughter angrily pulled her clothes out of the bag and mopped the floor with them. Minutes later both children where bellowing at me, incensed at my bumbling incompetence. The sound must have been so frightening that a lovely, concerned Mum asked if I was all right.

I wasn’t. But I had to say I was.

Next time, a Dad solution. We go home from swimming in dressing gowns. All of us.

Deep down, my wife thinks I’m an idiot. This is OK. I am. A bit.

Well, it was OK, except now, for several days a week, I’m doing something actually important. I’m in charge of both our small children, on my own, while she’s at work. It’s a test, one that she is secretly convinced that I’m going to fail.

For the first few days she was absolutely right. My children, it turns out, are tiny, terrifying psychopaths. As soon as his mother was gone my son emptied the entire contents of the house onto the floor then refused to eat or drink, have his nappy changed, or do anything at all without continuous argument and implacable physical resistance.

My daughter’s role in their plan to break me was simple. She crawled around, teeth slowly bursting through her gums, making a noise that is to the ears what being stabbed in the eyes is to the eyes.

I turned on Cbeebies and hunkered down. Confused, frightened, alone, I realised there was no escape. They were my kids. If I was going to survive I had to be stronger. I had to, in short, woman-up.

On the third day my daughter had an appointment to get her booster inoculations. I, by some miracle, had remembered to remember it. My wife hadn’t reminded me. Astonishingly, she’d forgotten.

This was my chance to show her. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know how anybody does it. I practically had to tear a hole in reality to get my kids to the doctor’s surgery in time.

Shell shocked and breathing hard, we fell against the reception desk. “She’s got jabs.” I held up my daughter.

“OK.” The receptionist said evenly. “Name?” I knew my daughter’s name.

“Date of birth?” She asked.

“Er…”. Mind. Blank.

She waited patiently, then finally said, chuckling, “You’ve really forgotten?”

“Wait.” I hissed. I named a month. “Is that right? Check the computer.”

She gave me a look.

Everyone, seriously. My wife must never, ever know of this.

I hate the singing bus.

“Let’s go to the school…” it sings in an American accent when you press a button. “A for apple. B for Bee, Buzz Buzz.” This is annoying enough, but my children don’t use the singing bus in the way the designers intended.

“A, A, A, A, Let’s, Let’s, Let’s, B, B, B, A, A, Let’s, Let’s…” It gibbers as they mash the buttons. It’s like the worst hip-hop record ever made.

The singing bus is clearly a terrible, terrible thing, and yet, illogically, I’m not allowed to smash it into little pieces with a hammer.

There is a toy that makes no sound what so ever. It doesn’t talk or sing or beep or parp. It doesn’t flash or glow or vibrate. It’s doesn’t require batteries. If you want to you can smash it into little pieces. In fact, this is actively encouraged. So that you can start building again.

I felt a tinge of sadness as we emptied the big box of lego from ebay onto the floor. I finally gave up my own stash a few years ago. I wont tell you how old I was, but the wound is still tender.

I was immediately lost in lego time. I began creating a kind of sci-fi Eiffel tower with a spaceship landing pad. It was all coming back to me, all the old skills. My hands moved with astonishing speed.

“That’s great son.” I nodded at his robot, but I couldn’t really look. I was at a critical stage. I had to find a key piece to balance the cantilever or the entire upper spire would be in danger of collapse. Just in time I broke up a shapeless lump of bricks and found the piece I needed.

My son started crying softly.

“Look at Daddies tower.” I grinned, admiring the beauty. I looked for his robot. It was in pieces. I realised I had broken it up for parts.

“Oh. Sorry son.” I said. His revenge on my tower was swift and brutal.

With great power comes great responsibility.

That’s what a great man was once told by another great man. (Spiderman by his Uncle Ben). And it’s very true.

Imagine you suddenly discovered you had magical powers. Perhaps the greatest magical power of all. The power to heal the sick. Like Jesus. I have discovered I have that power. I’m not saying that I’m Jesus or anything blasphemous like that. But it is quite a coincidence. It certainly makes a change from all the humdrum, rather unpleasant, non-magical parent work you have to do, like changing nappies. I actively avoid changing nappies. I actively seek out opportunities to use my new magical powers.

Turns out I posses the power to make any minor injury feel significantly better, simply by kissing it.

“Is it your turn to do a nappy?” My wife asks as a tell-tale smell fills the room. I strongly suspect it is.

“I think you’ll find it’s your turn, Mummy.” I lie.

“Nice try.” She says. Then, in the nick of time, our son falls over something and lightly clonks his head. I have to go in and offer magical kissing assistance.

“Sorry Mummy.” I say sadly. Her eyes narrowing at me, she takes our daughter away for a undercarriage service. I don’t feel bad. Mummy’s not above manoeuvring me into an unfair nappy change.

“Shall I kiss it better?” I ask. He nods. I kiss the back of his head and heal it.

“And there.” He says, pointing to his knee. I magic-kiss his knee better.

Mummy looks vaguely traumatised when she returns. “The next one’s yours.” She says.

Later, my son approaches looking unhappy. He seems to be hobbling slightly.

“Come here son.” I say, readying my magic lips. As he gets close a stinging odour rises from his shorts. Mummy sees my face and laughs.

Turns out he’s hobbling because of some nappy soreness. As he lies on the changing table he gazes up at me and points to his red bottom.

“Kiss better.” He pleads.

There’s a moment in blockbuster films, especially ones about dinosaurs or alien monsters, where one of the characters, usually the clever one who’s going to get eaten soon, turns to the others and says, “Oh my God, they’re learning.” This happens just before the dinosaur or monster taps in the entry password to get into where the humans are hiding and all the doors open and the clever bloke cops it.

Suffice to say, things would be a lot easier if things didn’t get cleverer. You could relax a bit, with less fear of being eaten.

My son asks for water. “Ok son.” I say.

I go and fill his drinking bottle with water. He loves his drinking bottle. He refuses to drink out of anything else. His love of his drinking bottle is one of the few reassuring constants amidst the chaos of our lives.

“No!” He shouts, incensed. “Not the bottle! I want that.” He points into the kitchen. I can’t make out what he’s pointing at.

“Here’s your drinking bottle.” I show him. “You love your drinking bottle.”

“Nooooooo!” He wails. “Want that.” Points again.

As is so often the case, I have no idea what he’s talking about, or what to do next. “No.” I say. This is a great problem solver. Simple, reliable “No”.

“Not fair!” He wails, hurling his bottle to the floor. His mother and I look at each other. He’s never said that before. This is a truly terrifying development. Of course it’s not fair! How can it be? I have no idea what I’m doing.

Confused, I panic. My brain says fight or flight. I choose flight.

“Why, Daddy, why?” My son asks for the first time ever, chasing me. This is deeply disturbing. Two frightening developmental advances in the same minute. “Please, Daddy!” He calls after me. “Please!”. Three.

I go and hide in the toilet, shaken. For a moment I’m in comforting silence.

Then the door handle starts to slowly turn. “Daddy?”

Thankfully, as a society we’re rather shy about pooing.

It would be unpleasant and, to say the least, controversial, if the fans on Murry Mount started publicly plopping into shopping bags so as not to miss a moment of the action. The police would probably be called. I don’t think even the queen could get away with pooing in a bag, no matter how interminable the state occasion.

It hasn’t always been this way, though. Back in Roman times they lined up in rows in communal conveniences. The chorus of bottoms must have been cacophonous. One wonders if they ever developed a way to create music with their bottoms, sort of like bell ringing. I like to think they did. Whatever the case, nowadays we prefer to poo in private.

Most of us, anyway.

We’re on holiday. We’re sitting with friends outside a delightful cafe in a delightful French town eating ice cream. The sun is shining. Everything is lovely.

Suddenly someone wonders where our son is. After a moment’s panic we realise that he’s under the table.

“You all right son?” I ask. He’s crouching behind a table leg. There’s a haunted look in his eyes. After a moment a small, strained squeaking sound comes from his bottom, followed quickly by an odour. We hope our friends haven’t smelled it.

“How’s your banana split?” We ask them. As they answer our son lets out another fart and a long, pained groan.

“Is he all right?” The friend asks.

“Yes.” We say. “He’s fine.” He groans again agonisingly.

“You OK, son?” We ask.

“No.” He says, hugging the table leg. We smile at our friends. He grimaces, mumbling incoherently. The table starts to rock as his moaning and groaning gets loader. It’s like we’re taking part a farty seance.

A few minutes later the entire cafe has been swamped by the smell of my sons bottom.

Our friends are very nice about it, and luckily none of the locals call the police. I’m not entirely sure why. I’m tempted to. Or an ambulance maybe.

Perhaps they’ll change his nappy.

I used to be young. And thin. I never needed exercise. I hardly had hangovers. I could get two hours sleep on top of a speaker in a smelly nightclub then be perky as a Cbbies presenter the next day. And I didn’t get fat, no matter how many takeaways I ate.

At some point my body, without telling me, stopped being able to do this. Before I knew it my waist size was going through the roof. I found myself’, in a large shop, seriously considering purchasing a pair of elasticated trousers. I have since lost weight, but your body never quite goes back to what it was.

Nor does your brain. I used to be less stupid, but time and children have destroyed my mind. Now there are automated supermarket checkouts with a higher IQ than me. I mentally tussle with them every other day. They always win.

Surely, though, I shouldn’t feel mentally inferior to my two year old son?

“What’s that?” He points with a sly smile. I tell him it’s a vase. “What’s that?” He points. A pile of books, I say. “What’s that?” He points at the space between the vase and the pile of books.

“That’s…” I trail off. My brain tries to think of something philosophical to say about the nature of nothingness. “That’s… the wall.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, satisfied. “What’s that?” He prods at me.

I smile. I definitely know the answer to this one. “That’s my leg.” I say.

“No.” He corrects me, giggling. “That’s daddy’s arm.”

I look at my leg for a moment, doubting myself. Is this some sort of test? “No,” I say carefully, “that’s daddy’s leg.”

“No. Arm.” He insists.

“No.” I say as calmly as I can. “Leg.”

“Yes.” He laughs. “That’s daddy’s leg.” He’s just toying with me.

He prods my chest. My chest wobbles slightly. “Those are daddy’s boobies.” He laughs.

I want to argue, explain the difference between mummies and daddies, but the truth is undeniable. “Yes.” I admit sadly. “Those are daddy’s boobies.”

She’s crawling. She’s angry. Her target is me.

My heart is pounding. I grab a packet of fish fingers out of the freezer, wrench the box open and throw them at the grill pan. They skitter everywhere. I swear. She’s already through the living room door. I have approximately 34 seconds to put on the dinner.

I gather the fish fingers, blow the bits of fluff off and hurriedly line them up. I turn on the grill. 25 seconds left.

My daughter roars at me like a tiny, enraged, fat, ginger lion. I don’t know what her gripe is. It doesn’t really matter. She crawls more slowly when she’s angry. That buys me maybe 5 more seconds. My son carries on watching TV, oblivious. Thank you TV.

Before I had children, I had time. I thought I was quite busy, but I actually had oceans of time. Infinite, lush expanses of time as far as the eye could see in every direction. I had time coming out of my ears. I was rolling in time. What did I do with it all?

I drop a carrot and accidentally kick it under the fridge. 20 seconds left. No time to get it now. It’ll be a little reminder of this day when we get a new fridge.

I know my time management is appalling. There must be a hundred ways I could better manage my time, but time management requires thinking, and I can’t think. My brain is too slow. It needs time to think. I have no time.

It’s hard to peel and chop carrots in a hurry without chopping your fingers off, especially if a tiny ginger lion is bellowing at you. 14 seconds. I start to panic. Carrot peel flies everywhere. Carrot sticks tumble to the floor. 7 seconds.

She stops. Gently she lays her forehead on the floor and moans pitifully. Thank God. She’s taking a despair break, whimpering and recharging her rage batteries. It doesn’t last long though. I grab a dish and chuck in the carrots. I dump peas in on top of them. They bounce in all directions. 5 seconds. I shove it all into the microwave and turn the dial.

3 seconds, 2, 1. She rattles the kitchen gate like a rioting prisoner, then hurls herself to the ground. I carry her back, comforting her just long enough to stop her crying.

She screams at me heart-rendingly as I put her down and charge back to the kitchen.

Reset the clock, and…. Go! Fill the dishwasher!