What Would Bob Do?

Bob the Builder, that is. Le Bricoleur. Bob der Baumeister. That Zoro of roofing, the Indiana Jones of eavestroughing, the Buddha of tunnel illumination. The Jesus of the toddler world (Christ himself, after all, was a carpenter).

When all else fails--the threats, the whining, the cajoling, the extravagant promises of chocolate covered raisins, the disappointed pointing to the princely William Ellis, Perfect Boy--when all arrows have been shot from the parental quiver, out it comes: WHAT WOULD BOB DO?

Bob would eat his Builder Beef. And his peas. Bob would pick up his books. Bob wouldn't tell Mommy to go sit in the cupboard. He certainly wouldn't rip off his diapers and race around the house brandishing them in the air like the shrunken head of his fallen enemy.

He's kind to chickens, badgers and impudent scarecrows. He's a bit flirtacious but certainly not in any creepy kind of way toward his business partner, Wendy, who (frankly) seems a bit discouraged by his dense gentility. He likes his cream puffs. How dear. He never met a problem he couldn't solve. He loves his twin brother. When in doubt, he has a cuppa tea.

I have a problem with all of it.

Bob needs a ray gun, a giant ego, a swagger. He needs some tighter overalls and a groovy theme song that doesn't include the words "team" and "fun." His sidekick should have at least the option of a bikini or a whip or a snarling dog, instead of that pussy Pilchard. I'm raising a BOY here, not my great-uncle Floyd. Let's have some sass, some banter, some derring-do. Maybe some blood. More than you'd get from banging your thumb with a hammer. At least a bruise. Seriously.

After a lifetime of being a boy wannabe, I finally have my chance to live life in the dirtyfastrudeconstantlymovingabsolutelyfilthyhandsandface lane and what do I find??? It's been diverted through a really pretty park, past a waterfall and a lollypop tree and has a posted sign of 15km/hr because it's all through a school zone.

I want my chromosome back.