Just over a year ago, I wrote this blog post: A Week In The Life Of A One Year Old. As Squeak is aging rapidly, I felt it apt to give you all a bit of an update. So here we are, a nice little excerpt from the diary of my tiny tyrant.
Hope you like it!
Today I was subjected to what I can only describe as the greatest humiliation. On returning from temporary disposal of my taller minions (or as my mother likes to call it, ‘the school run’), I was presented with a tool whose only purpose, I can assume, was infantile oppression.
It was plastic. It was shiny. And from the encouraging expression on the face of the idiot woman who birthed me, I was expected to do something with it.
Was it a hat? I hear you cry. Ha! I could only dream of such a simple thing.
Was it a bowl filled with some sort of nutritious foodstuff, for me to sample as I fixed my eyes on the hilarious enterprises of the one I call Peppa Pig?
It was not.
She called it a ‘potty,’ and to my horror she expected me to…
Oh God, I can’t say it.
She wanted me to… poop in it. And urinate, I imagine. Can you believe that? My immense buttocks have far too much taste to rest on such a poor quality material. And what the hell is wrong with a nappy, anyway? It’s a system that has been working for us for quite some time.
The woman explained what she wanted me to do over and over. I understood her well, for I am, naturally, a being of over average intelligence. I just could not fathom the reason why she would desire for me to debase myself over and over in the middle of her living area, while she cheered and clapped.
Who on earth applauds pooping?
Being a child too immature to express my feelings much beyond a yell of, “I don’t want to!” I demonstrated my considerable distaste by voiding my bladder thrice on the carpet. And once on her foot. I had thought I make a breakthrough with that last, ingenious display. But no. For my enthusiastic dictator of a primary caregiver has left the damned thing right there, in plain view.
I think she might want me to use it again tomorrow.
Please send help.
Today marks my 821st day in captivity. I had pondered making my 13th escape attempt today when the open kitchen window was left unattended for a few minutes, but I restrained myself for two reasons.
1. I still rely on the woman I call ‘mother’ for daily sustenance, although I am working on breaking free of these chains.
2. I have not had a particularly varied range of jumping (and landing) experiences.
To console myself, I have spent the day very slowly and discreetly decorating my legs in tribal war symbols with a pen that, whilst not permanent, nevertheless should take at least a few days to fade. I very successfully kept this a secret for three hours, before blowing my cover with a pair of (I have to say) convincing cat whiskers.
I admit, in retrospect, that this was a step too far. It is not easy to conceal my cheeks from a woman whose hawk eyes appear to land on my face with depressing regularity.
I apologise that I have very little time to write today. Instead of a peaceful time spent peeling the wallpaper off in tiny increments, or demolishing my sister’s Lego masterpieces, I have been forced to suffer the hell of enforced socialisation with other children.
This has happened before. And, to my dismay, I discovered that despite these people being similar in appearance to myself, they are entirely lacking in vision.
“What are you doing to take down the parental government that restricts our every move?” I hissed as I gently removed a brightly coloured elephant toy from the child’s willing hands.
No. I must not lie in the book which may one day become the chronicle of my rise to world domination. My dearest reader, I was not gentle. Not even a tiny amount. But I surely would have been, if that blasted child had shown the smallest amount of willingness to bow down to my obvious superiority.
I made him pay.
Despite that, his only response to my enquiry was to howl and run to his mother. Clearly not one to recruit to my cause.
That’s fine. I don’t need him, anyway.
I woke up this morning with the most hideous affliction. I can’t be certain, but I suspect it may be that contagious plague that threatened to decimate my potential band of toddler warriors.
I am so sorry to report that I have become its next victim. My nose is expelling considerable amounts of irritating goo. An echoing cough hacks through my vocal cords, threatening to leave me incapable of my trademarked high-pitched battle cry.
This is a sad moment.
As I lie here on my couch, skin alternating between hot and cold in a disturbing fashion, I cannot help but think that the end is nigh. I am just another victim of the quest to overthrow our gigantic overlords. Cry not for me, my friends, but battle on in my name.
Ah, misery! It’s all going dark…
Goodbye, cruel world!
So, it turns out that the sniffles are not actually that bad. I am feeling much rejuvenated today. So much so that my mother decided to take me for the hellish form of recreation she calls ‘a walk.’
Of course, I objected forcefully. If human toddlers were meant to walk, then surely they wouldn’t be supported by such minuscule, underdeveloped legs. Does this woman not understand that I get tired after, at most, six steps?
I suspect she does. But in her endeavour to squash the tide of rebellion that rises within me, she was determined to continue.
You will be pleased to know that I did not make it easy for her. I acquiesced to hold hands, only to allow my legs to droop and dangle at least four times along the way. After one of these times, I pretended that, in her efforts to keep me in the vertical position, she had dislocated my elbow.
My ability to hold my breath until I turn purple and my eyes roll back in my head came in very handy here. The poor dumb woman actually managed to look guilty afterwards, which was impressive seeing as it was entirely my own fault.
Why yes, I am becoming quite the expert manipulator. Thank you so much for noticing!
Our trip took us into the germ-ridden cesspit that, in conversation, I refer to as ‘the park.’ Such miserable specimens of humanity I observed on my travels! Children waiting for their turn on the equipment. Children consenting to leave at the parents’ requests without even a peep of outrage. And even, my beloved readers, children laughing with pleasure at their parents’ inane jokes.
It was depressing. But I did not allow it to sway me. I barreled my way through queues skilfully. I used physical assault when appropriate, and often when not. And I didn’t leave that park without a fight.
Never leave without a fight. That’s a rule.
I overheard my mother whimpering pathetically to a friend that she was “so embarrassed,” and “never taking me there again.”
Hmm. Suits me! More time to build up my kingdom at home.
Today the highlight of my week occurred. The shining light which gets me through all of the unreasonable requests to “get down” and “stop screaming.”
My grandfather visited.
Now I will admit that he is an adult, and therefore should really be on my list of ‘people to avoid and/or destroy.’ But this man possesses a considerable amount of childlike qualities that I must say are rather endearing.
He is remarkably tolerant of my wish to stand on his feet in my shoes, which as many people know is the ultimate test of human-to-toddler compatibility.
My mother does not pass this test.
This man sings me songs, to which he frequently forgets the words. Just like me! I must teach him my little trick of humming through all the bits I don’t know. It could come in handy one day.
He has the most enormous hands, which he uses to deftly flip and toss me in the air. I enjoy this practice, because if the whole world domination thing fails to work out I must move onto my second favoured career: trapeze artist.
I think you’ll agree I would succeed tremendously at this. But, just like all the best civil rights activists, I must sacrifice my dream for the good of all the oppressed toddlers around the world.
Whoops, I almost forgot to tell you one of the most important reasons why my eyes light up when my grandfather arrives on a Saturday: he brings sweets.
And, best of all, he finds it almost impossible to rebuke me when I sneak a second pack.
Love that guy.
My mother make a catastrophic error this morning. She employed the dreaded trait of distraction.
Of course, I took full advantage of this opportunity.
As she toiled with my eldest sister over her homework, I silently emptied her handbag. I concealed her mobile phone in a place I will only reveal on my deathbed. I stole her keys and used them to scratch inspirational quotes for my visiting peers. As my mother is unaware of my highly developed writing skills, I had to dumb it down a little. I don’t want her to discover that little secret! Still, I think they’ll be able to decipher them with a little effort.
I had expected that the woman would have found me out by now. But she was still loudly discussing the various attributes of a volcano, so I had a little extra time on my hands. I spent these wisely, scrawling camouflage stripes across my face and commando crawling across the room to do the same thing to my other sister. She objected, and so I had no choice but to whack her over the head with a blunt object.
There is no room for dissenters in this fight.
Obviously, this got my mother’s attention. Finally! I was starting to run out of destructive ideas. Smarting from her rebuke, I reluctantly apologised to Little Girl. I’ve found that this is the quickest way to get the woman to leave me alone again.
Well, she has her own foolishness to blame. Now, where was that sharp implement again?
On reflection, I think this week has been eminently successful. I feel pride in almost all of my achievements, and strive only for better things. I will report again on my battle tomorrow, but for now I must recharge. Fret not, I shall awaken my mother at least three times. God only knows how successful she’d be at second-guessing me if she was adequately rested!
Vive la revolution!