Walking – aka modern day bait and switch
Ok so you were right. I suppose I can see the merits of this walking thing. Take a few wobbly steps, bask in the glory of my own brilliance, graciously accept praise, cuddles and attention from everyone within the surrounding area.
I mean, actually, after a while the praise dried up… That’s fine, I get it. I’ll remember that tho, next time you’re dangling a beleaguered looking squeaky giraffe above my head in an attempt to get me to smile for the camera.
Anyway, now that I’ve mastered the art, I can see that there are up sides to the whole walking thing. Getting to the dog’s water bowl quicker so I can wash your phone, for example. Running out the gate at the playground like the loveable little scamp that I am, to chase the rubbish truck up the street. Stuff like that. You get so much joy out of chasing me and desperately shrieking my name – I wouldn’t want to deprive you of that.
But there is one point I’d like to raise as a matter of urgency. Whatever happened to the “up” command?
I thought we had a well implemented system in place here.
I say “up”.
You pick me up.
Simple cause and effect.
I don’t recall approving a negotiation clause when I was training you in the exacting art of doing what I want, when I want. Nor a “no, you can walk, you’re a big boy now” clause. I’m not a big boy when I want to use the scissors to cut shapes into the leaves on your fiddle leaf fig. Where’s the consistency?
I’m just going to put it out there. When I’m losing my ‘nana because you won’t let me ride a horse, it’s not because I’m over tired.
It’s because you won’t let me ride a horse.
I do truly appreciate your valiant attempts to placate me… “We don’t have a horse”…Ha.
I won’t be limited like that.
But I confess, I’ve grown to love how sweetly you coo “oh you’re just tired aren’t you darling” to stop your friends or fellow supermarket patrons from judging us while I’m loudly vocalising my (justifiable) disappointment. But evenso, I’m sorry, you’re flying solo on this one. I’m not over tired. What I’m over is you telling me I’m tired.
And now that we’ve opened the lines of communication, there is this other thing that’s been bothering me…
I don’t know where you learnt your elaborate system of baby sign language, but it seems that somewhere during your extensive research on smothering my life force with unnecessary amounts of eye shutting, you’ve picked up a slight mistranslation that when I touch my ear it’s a cue to ship me off for that weirdly incessant adult construct you’ve entitled “sleepy byes”.
Frankly, since we’re being honest, you’ve ruined Heads, shoulders, knees and toes for me. Whenever we get to the part about “eyes and ears and mouth and nose” I can’t bring myself to go on, just in case touching my ear lands me another stint in solitary. I’m not above resisting a rest!
I’ve thought of a new rule. I’ll sleep when I decide I want to sleep. And if that’s on the floor, five minutes before we’re due to leave for your one social occasion for the month, weeeeeeeellllll…I’m prepared to make that sacrifice.
What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is mineThat train is mine. Yep. Did you hear me? That baby you suddenly brought home after you spent nine months eating chicken nuggets and letting go of yourself, has my train.
Ummmm. My train?
She’s got it.
So, can we discuss the fact that the train that belongs to me, is now not in my possession?
I’m on board with Santa. And the Easter bunny. These are ideas that have merit. They’ve taken background work. Thought. A little bit of creativity. Making those connections at the North Pole can’t have been easy, but you networked like a boss. And I appreciate that commitment. Santa, the Easter bunny, even that delightful little fairy that exchanges body parts for money… They’re not half assed ideas thought up in a desperate cloying attempt to make me laugh.
But here’s the thing.
And why did you take it?
Give me back my nose. I’m not even playing.
It’s also becoming evident that spoons do not, as you would have me believe, sound like aeroplanes. And I kid you not, my toes aren’t piggies. Just sayin’.
No means yes.
No I don’t want to clean my teeth.
No I’m not getting dressed.
No I won’t get into the car.
Not sleeping either, FYI.
Lunch….. Mmmmmm…That’s a no.
Do I want to draw more than a single big brown circle on each blank page of my colouring book? Yeah…No.
I feel like out of all the words you’ve been meticulously tuh tuh teaching me, this is the one I’m most on board with.
But, I do have just one small issue that needs addressing. It’s just a little thing. Don’t feel bad. I just think I should mention it.
Somewhere along the line it seems you have misinterpreted the actual meaning of the word no somewhat. No need to be ashamed, it happens. We can’t all be perfect. It’s just…I’ve noticed there appears to be some mystical duality which somehow causes you to think I still have to do things no matter how vigourously I exercise my new found ability to refuse.
And yet when Playschool sings to me that “Johnnie bangs with one hammer, one hammer, one hammer, Johnnie bangs with one hammer, then he bangs with two”….and, to illustrate their point to you, because honestly sometimes, you can be a bit slow on the uptake, I bang with one hammer on the glass tabletop, no suddenly means no. I’m confused.
So crusts. What’s that about? Why exactly would I want to eat the arse end of the bread? I want soft bread.
Cut into the shape of a triangle.
Unless you’ve cut it into a triangle in which case, rectangle.
But now I’ve seen what you’ve spent twenty minutes making while you could have been sifting through the Duplo container to find me all the green pieces which I think I made abundantly clear I wanted when I threw the red piece you gave me across the room, I’m not hungry. Unless you plan on making me what we ran out of yesterday.
What even is that brown stuff you’re putting in my bowl…Oh my lovely clean rice is ruuuuuiiiinedddddd. I don’t even like casse…..roll my sleeves up??? Um no. Out of the question. OHHHHH MY SLEEVES ARE WETTTTTTT!! I DONT WANT MY WET SLEEVE TOUCHING MY ARM!!!!!! WHY WOULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN TO ME?????
Play restriction torture attire
Why do you persist on trying to encourage me to put my own socks on? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but my foot does not fit in that hole.
No way no how.
Is this like the nose thing again? You’re trying to trick me? I thought we’d talked about this after the great nose heist of twenty fifteen culminated in 35 minutes of hysterical tears and an angry power spew across your new rug. Tricking me is not in anyone’s best interest.
And, just so’s you know. Who even needs pants?
Not required at home or the park. Certainly not at the supermarket.
Let’s not do this again. I’m just going to take them off. Unless of course I need to do a wee wee. Then you’re going to have to take them off for me, because I can’t. And then you’ll have to put them back on me, because I can’t.
PS. I’m hungry. What happened to my rice…..