Tales from a Toddler

My son is an advanced child.  Not in the sense that he’s displaying the precursors to Mozart level brilliance, no.  He has firmly established himself in the realm of Terrible Two well before reaching that milestone via days existed.  As my wife and I stare wide-eyed through tantrum after tantrum, my thoughts spin towards what his thoughts must be during these little spells.  Here for your enjoyment, I present Tales from a Toddler.  (Note: for maximum enjoyment, read in whatever voice comes to mind when I say pretentious British aristocracy)

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Entry #1: Mother refused to grant my desires this morning.  I clearly and with great articulation expressed my need for liquid refreshment.  What does she do?  She brings me some!  The gall of this woman.  Obviously, I meant that I did not want any such thing brought to me.  She should have left it on the floor and turned her back so that I might recover it in peace on my own schedule.  I shudder to think of what fresh purgatory the remainder of my childhood shall become with such caretakers.

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Entry #2: The audacity of these people.  Don’t they know that when I say “no poop”, I am fully aware that my diapers do have, in point of fact, a prodigious quantity of fecal matter?  I am merely expressing my desire to keep said excrement close by on the off chance I need it for artistic endeavors later on.  One never knows when the muse will strike, and I—unlike my caretakers—strive to always be prepared.  At least I was able to perform a double half-twist with perfect form during the attempted changing.  It’s important to maintain one’s flexibility, after all.

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Entry #3: My father is an imbecile.  This man returns home from work and sees me yelling “Dada!  Dada!” through the window before running to the door to greet him and what does he think?  He imagines I am there for him!  Does he not realize it is my stuffed kitty that occupies the whole of my world?  Father is but a means of conveyance for Kitty, and a poor one at that.

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Entry #4: I never knew sentient humans could possess the spatial awareness of a bird striking a window.  Mother continues to operate under the false impression that she is allowed to sit on the couch.  This is clearly intolerable.  How can she not see that her position remains firmly on the floor next to the couch?  I have explained this to her with great vigor on multiple occasions, yet she continues to persist in this folly.  Truly, I do not understand this woman.

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Entry #5: The caretakers disrupted yet another creative masterpiece today.  Riddle me this: were your chefs to provide you with a lovingly crafted presentation of wholesome bread covered by a delightful nut spread melody paired with sliced fruit and an assortment of cheese, would you not also immediately chew what was most readily available before spitting it into your hand to then throw at the floor?  How else is one to see what the Fates and the muse together might create?  And to think they called it a mess!  No one appreciates my brilliance.

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Entry #6: Again, Mother refuses to grant my desires.  Upon providing me with a pair of sunglasses—last season’s design, but let no one say I am not magnanimous—she attempted to put them on my face.  Unacceptable, of course.  What she needed to do instead was put them on my face.  What could possibly be simpler?  Perhaps if next time I scream louder that she must put them on me as I fight her attempts to do so, the message will finally sink home.

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Entry #7: I have no words.  I do not doubt the good intentions of my caretakers, but I am increasingly convinced they lack the basic mental capacity for communication.  Though I clearly explained my request, Mother denied me the simple enjoyment of licking my pee-filled bathwater off the shower floor.  Father, of course, agreed with her—he always does, fawning underling that he is.  The day was not a complete loss, thankfully, as I managed to rub some of it onto my face before they stopped me.