A tangible tension permeated between us. I wasn’t speaking to my parents.
It was entirely their fault. We had all been getting on quite well, I had made a few quips and they had laughed in response. ‘She looks so cute when she pulls that face,’ mother had sighed. ‘Cute for a baby dictator,’ father had replied and they had both giggled. I knew that their good humour was in response to a joke I had made about the dust on the bedside table, which was directly beside where I lay in my crib. ‘It looks like it hasn’t been bothered by a cloth since before I was even conceived,’ I announced, loudly. I was pleased by their reaction; I was glad that they were able to laugh at their own laziness. To be fair though, whilst I was having a bit of fun with them, the table was very dusty, and really, it could do with a good scrub. Not for the first time I wondered what they were spending their days doing. It wasn’t as if I was very demanding, apart from milk and a nappy change every now and then, my needs were minimal. Once again, I went to shake my head, managed to get it to one side, and that was where it stayed, my not having the strength nor the ability to move it back to the other side.
So I was in a good mood with them, a mood which was only enhanced by my choice of bedtime wear. Mother had dressed me for bed in my most stylish outfit yet – a soft all in one which felt like a hug on my skin. It took me a moment or two to work out the pattern, my eyes still struggling to focus, but eventually I could just about make out fluffy clouds, so different to those grey, horrible clouds I had seen on my first step out into the world. I couldn’t help but admire myself in my new outfit, stretching out my legs and arms to better view my attire. It might be immodest but I did think to myself that I would surely be a contender for any best dressed competition.
And so I couldn’t help but be surprised that my parents had evidently chosen such a – yes, I’ll say it – stunning outfit for me, particularly when their own dress sense was at best wanting, at worst, terrible. Take mother. It was hard to be sure, my memory not being up to much yet, but I swear she had been in the same out of shape dress for three days running now. When I looked closer, and I did frequently when I was hoisted upon her boob, I could see stains running down the front. Someone needed to tell her that sartorially, she was a sight. I looked at my father, but in his baggy trousers and his t-shirt with holes under the arms, I realised he was not going to be in any position to offer advice, so it was down to me.
But how do you say such a thing? I wrestled with this for a good few minutes; after all, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She doesn’t seem a bad old thing my mother, just a bit dopey. At last, having found the right words, I started to tell her, loudly, so that she would hear: ‘MOTHER. I DON’T WANT TO-‘ I began before rudely being interrupted.
‘She needs her bum changed,’ mother said confidently, picking me up gently.
‘No! No I don’t,’ I protested, noisily. ‘I was just trying to tell you something,’ I snapped annoyed. And I was annoyed. I knew that my nappy was absolutely clean but somewhere, in all the confusion, I found that I did actually need a wee – and ended up peeing all other Mother mid-change.
‘She’s got it everywhere! Her Babygro is soaked!’ mother cried, frustrated, shooting me a look as if to say ‘this is your fault.’
I fixed her a glare of my own. ‘Hey lady,’ I began, my voice screeching in my frustration. ‘Don’t look at me like this is down to me. I told you I didn’t need changing. The onus for this error of judgement is upon you.’
I felt a bit bad then as I could see Mother’s eyes filling with tears. I started to apologise. ‘I’m sorry,’ I began. ‘I guess we are both a little culpable,’ I added, though I secretly knew none of this was my fault. Sometimes you just have to be the bigger person.
But if I thought my selfless comment was going to be welcomed, then I was very much mistaken viagra vente en ligne. Mother burst into tears. And then we were joined by my Father.
‘You go and have a shower love, get changed, I’ll look after this one.’
‘She won’t stop crying.’
‘Shush, go on love. I’ll take over,’ and then to me, he added. ‘Now, be a good girl for daddy.’
I fixed him with a glare. ‘I am always a good girl,’ I replied, affronted.
It was around this time that I suddenly realised that my beautiful all in one was absolutely soaking wet. And not only that, it was cold. Oh my… I suddenly panicked. ‘GET THIS THING OFF ME!’ I screamed. But the buffoon only fumbled with my poppers. ‘GET. IT. OFF. ME. NOW,’ I shouted, getting more and more distressed.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ came mother’s voice, muffled.
‘I can’t get this bloody onesie off,’ he cried.
I watched as my father continued to struggle with my garment which was not getting any dryer or warmer. I screamed louder and louder, longer and longer, to remind him of the urgent nature of the situation. The more I shouted, the redder I noticed he became, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. ‘COME ON YOU FOOL,’ I exclaimed at last, using what little lung capacity I had to great effect.
My words seemed to have the desired impact as father finally managed to get the all in one off me and I was free of the damp, cold clothes and I lay there happy. For a second. Because that was how long it took before the cold air hit me and I had cause to scream again. ‘I’M FREEZING! I’M COLD! GET ME SOME CLOTHES NOW!’ I declared. Honestly, my parents really were pushing me to the limit today.
‘Where are those onesies? Where?’ said my father, sounding panicked. I noticed that his eyes were now filling with tears too.
‘Here,’ replied mother, calmly, as she handed over a new all in one. I was not impressed. It was plain and boring and the material was not anywhere as soft against my skin. I muttered some words of annoyance.
‘Whatever is the matter with her?’
‘I wish she could tell us what’s wrong.’
‘I have been telling you,’ I said, angrily.
‘Do you think she’s over-tired?’
‘No’, I spat, ‘I’m not over tired. In fact, I feel as if I could stay up all night.’ Perhaps I would?
‘Yes, I think that’s it,’ agreed my mother, as she lay me down in my crib.
Right. That’s it, I thought. If you’re not going to listen to me then I’m not going to talk to you. And I didn’t. The atmosphere was thick between us.
But, as I have said before, I am not one to hold grudges and I was soon chatting away to them again, on and off, and frequently throughout the night. I would have thought that they would have seemed happier that I had obviously forgiven them but from the looks on their faces, apparently not. My mother and father are quite strange sometimes.