Who needs reality TV? I watch those buffed up guys baulking over chewing on a tiny bug, or complaining about mud, heights or water. PSHAW!

They should put parents on that show – The Squeamish Factor- Test their ability to cope with the rigours of pregnancy and birth. Piles? Bring em on! Having to watch a Caesar? No problem. Stomach bugs tat go round and round the family until the washing machine explodes? We have to draw the line somewhere.

I used to be so finicky that I hated to touch the ‘bits’ that gather in the plug after you’ve watch the dishes. Now, after the two children, I am just as likely to pop the bits into my mouth as a snack. Not quite, but you get the drift. I’ve been pooped on, vomited on, both in public and while asleep… (And pretended to remain asleep so that Neen will crack first and strip the bed- Bad dad.

Before children, my wife and I never ever ever ever farted infront of each other. We didn’t talk about farts. We hid like secret agents in the dark recesses of the house and passed our wind like a top secret document. We still don’t fart in front of each other, but hearing your plump baby rumble like a professional wrestler on a cabbage diet is just too too funny.

Who needs to eat entrails? As parents of young children, we have seen our diets winnowed down to things like fish sticks and nuggets. I suspect nuggets are pretty much made up of entrails. Mmmm Gut nuggets.

Four words: Cloth Nappies; Nappy Buckets.

When we were weaning Hannah off nappies, we switched from cloth to disposables. After a few weeks of thinking the drains were blocked, I realised that the cloth nappy bucket had never been emptied. I was the brave volunteer to empty it (as in ‘you empty it or else!’). Mass graves, I am sure, smell better.

Fear? Those living Ken dolls on those shows don’t know the first thing about fear. Can I have my $50 000 dollars now, please?