Ah, I wake refreshed after my 9-hour sleep. I love sleeping with Mum and Dad… Dad’s neck as my pillow, and Mum’s face as my footrest, this is the life.
Despite my being wide awake, neither of the big people have gotten up yet to get me a snack or drink or just to pander to my needs in general, so I do something I learnt from The Wiggles – I get REAL close to Mummy’s ear and start soft “One, two, three”… then scream “WAKE UP MUMMY”. Mum gets up, yay!
OK, I’m already annoyed… I want to play with my new Duplo but Mum doesn’t understand that the first necessary step involves skilfully emptying the whole box from the big table onto the hard floor. I love the noise it makes but Mum starts shushing me and wants me to do the jigsaw instead. I WON’T BE SHUSHED LADY! Hold on, wait, there’s crying from the bedroom. Oh no, we woke Baby up! My bad… Actually just kidding, I don’t feel bad at all. Everyone should be up by now, it’s nearly 6am for Pete’s sake.
I want toast. I want it now. So I tell Mum. Even after we’ve finishing doing that annoying thing where she makes me say “please” at the end of everything (she’s clearly mistaken me for a dog, I don’t follow orders woman), she STILL keeps asking me if I’m sure if I want toast. Is she retarded? Did I not just ask for it? DID I STUTTER? Mum makes me toast and brings it over. Sorry, did I say toast? I meant apple. You weren’t listening.
OK, I’ve got that weird feeling in my tummy. Is it a fart or a poo poo? They want me to use this small white plastic ? hat as a toilet, but every time I tell Mum and Dad I’m doing a poo poo they check and say “It’s just fart”, so I guess it’s just fart. So I squat down in the corner and do my ‘fart’. Man, that feels like a big warm solid ‘fart’ in my nappy. Well done me.
Dad’s up, yay! Dunnoe what got him up but never mind, I’ll just keep on with my clanging of saucepan lids. That’s me baby, making percussion magic like a maestro. But like WTF dude, Dad’s straight on to me “Mate, did you do a poo poo?”. “No.” I tell him truthfully. Dad checks. Dad’s face changes colour. Dad makes a weird gargling-coughing noise. He picks me up by my armpits carrying me as far away from his own body as possible, dumps me on the change table with a loud “YOU’VE DONE A MASSIVE POO POO”. “A” there’s no need to be this noisy so early in the morning, and “B” you’re wrong homie, it’s just fart. A fart that is solid and stinky, with the power to penetrate HAZMAT containment systems.
I love jumping. Especially on the sofas because they’re fun and bouncy and all the cushions come off. Why is Baby crying? Geez she’s loud (eye roll). Mummy’s telling me I shouldn’t be jumping on Baby. SO UNFAIR! Ultimately it’s Baby’s fault for getting in the way of my feet. Classic example of how they’re always tough on the first-born…
Feeling a bit tired with all the eating, farting, jumping, WWF-slams on Baby, and pulling all my toys and books onto the floor. But I can’t let the big people see my tiredness, my weakness. So I trick them by being even MORE animated and even MORE energetic than before. But they’re still pissing me off by denying me my rightful activities (don’t know what the big deal is… Mum’s phone makes an awesome drum to bang my toy trucks against) so I punctuate everything with hysterical meltdowns, just to keep them on their toes. I have supreme control of my tear ducts. I don’t even cry at the drop of a hat, I cry when some ethnic farmer is being underpaid somewhere to grow the plant that makes the fibres that makes the fabric that makes the hat. Yeah, I’m THAT good. Anyway my plan worked, they’re taking me out, yay!
It’s been fun – we’ve seen birdies, trees, other kids, doggies – I point all these out and name them so the olds think I’m clever and feel good about themselves. OH YES we see lots of my favourite thing at the moment – trucks. Unfortunately it’s a bit hard for my toddler mouth to say it how THEY want me to say it, so “truck” comes out like “cock”. Nevertheless I point them out and name their colours, so much fun. “LOOK MUM, BIG WHITE TRUCK”, “LOOK DAD BLUE TRUCK”. I don’t understand why but they keep laughing at me. I HATE BEING LAUGHED AT. They will pay for this.
I’m still awake suckers. I know this outside fun was just a ploy to make me sleep. I trick you into thinking I’m asleep by blinking r.e.a.l.l.y. slowly but when you stop pushing the stroller – HEY HO! Here I am! You can try all you like, I’ll never fall asle…..
Damn, did I fall asleep? I have to admit I feel pretty good but I can’t let them see that so I act whiney and clingy for a good 40 minutes or so, refusing to let go. I’m too heavy to carry? Suck it up, you’re obviously unfit.
It’s snack time. I get strawberries. I LOVE STRAWBERRIES. One time I ate strawberries for every meal for two weeks and Mum and Dad thought I had a medical problem. I finish my strawberries and ask for more. I even get in there with a “please” before they can nag me about it. I get told “no”. Seriously people, are we on war rations? I won’t accept no for an answer. OK FINE! I’ll eat all of Mummy’s snack instead. Scraps at best. You’re lucky I’m such an easy-going child.
We drop into my daycare so Mummy can speak to the older kids on “When I Grow Up”. I can hear Mummy explaining what she does as a doctor and trying to ask meaningful educational questions but it doesn’t go well for her. We have questions that need answering that go WAY beyond what she can provide…
“When I have an injection, does it have to go into my penis?”
“Why is that lady so fat?” (Pointing at fat lady within ear shot)
“When I grow up, can I be a ballerina / table / triangle / unicorn.”
Mum tries to be encouraging but you can tell she thinks being a ballerina is a stupid idea.
I love kicking a ball around outside. It’s hard to coordinate the hands/ feet/ ball sometimes but you can pretty much do anything and these fools will still think you’re clever. I love throwing the ball over the barrier where it’s hard to get past. Dad has to go get the ball and as he’s climbing back up, I throw it again. Such a fun game. We repeat this until Dad says we have to go play somewhere else. Kill joy.
Yay, nearly dinner time! I love dinner time the most, because it’s when I have the most control over the big people. The simple truth is our goals are not aligned… They REALLY want me to eat the dinner they’ve prepared, and I REALLY want to throw it and make it stick on the wall / throw it on the floor / empty my water bottle into the food or onto the floor / pick my nose and eat it (yummy!) / or just not eat at all. Nose bogies are so tasty I don’t understand why Dad didn’t like it that time I picked one and fed it to him when he was half-asleep… I even told him it was “Nummy!” but he freaked out… Whatever. When I don’t want to eat, they do these stupid games to try to trick me – damn aeroplane… You’d think by now they’d have realised I have the tongue and gag reflex of a cat getting a worming pill. Tonight it’s simple. I want more strawberries. Mum says no, Dad says yes. Divide and conquer. Tonight… I win. Mua ha ha ha!
Shower time. Before shower time Mum and Dad do this stupid dance and sing a made-up song ‘Shower Time’ to the tune of MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This”. Seriously people, get with the programme, it was funny like a year ago. But I let them carry on, they seem to enjoy it. I give them a heartfelt “YAY!” when they finish so they feel good about themselves.
Bedtime. Another situation with highly variable outcomes. Sometimes I am so tired I can’t resist but go to sleep. I hate those nights, such a waste of manipulative power. Other nights I jump on the bed, run in and out of the room, cry for no good reason, or SOMETIMES when I’m sick and have a cough, I’ll cough really hard and all this weird smelly stuff will come out of my mouth all over the bed. Sometimes I get off the bed to tell Mum and Dad while this is happening and the stuff is still coming out, and this makes them move extra fast, rushing around with towels and stuff, yelling out words that sound like “stew” or “screw”, I can’t be sure. On those occasions I get a nice shower, a fresh bed, and lot of cuddles. It’s like toddler spa.
OK, enough of this farce of sleeping in my own bed. Time to move into the big people’s bed. Dad takes me back to my own bed… OK, so we’re playing THAT game tonight. Game on. I slow my breathing and close my eyes so he thinks I’m asleep.
Darn, I must have actually fallen asleep without meaning to. Never mind, continue with the plan. I go into Mum and Dad’s bed and they don’t resist, score!
I’ve manoeuvred myself by aggressively twisting/ turning/ kicking/ throwing punches, so that FINALLY I’m comfortable. Mum makes complainy noises (seriously what a whinger, she needs to harden up) and takes Baby and goes into my bed. Just me and Dad, us boys, at last. I spread out and make myself comfortable leaving Dad hanging on the edge of the bed. This is his punishment for laughing at me pointing out trucks earlier in the day.
Sunlight is peeking through but I’m not quite ready to get up and face the day. So I stab Dad in the eye and yell “bottle”. OK I know… I probably should have given the bottle away by now, but when you’re sleepy and still in bed, nothing is as cosy or comforting as having your slave make you a warm milk bottle. Breakfast in bed bitches.
Being a toddler is awesome! Can’t wait for Baby to grow up so we can plot and plan together! Even at her young age she shows promise… Like when she cries like she’s being tortured even though Mum has just changed/ fed/ cuddled her – it’s especially good when she does this at my dinner/ shower/ story/ sleep time just to see Mum squirm. Baby… You make me proud. 🙂