Mobile Infant

  

     Here's my second attempt. I wrote this one from the perspective of a mobile infant and have begun to toy with the idea of two protagonists: mobile infant boy and toddler girl. Same disclaimer: situations and names fabricated or changed. Feedback is welcome.

 
      I have begun to notice a pattern in the day’s events and have been toying with the idea of disturbing what seems to be considered our “routine”. The other day, as one of the wrinkled ones held me (the one who smells like bananas, not the one that with the ever-present pocket of forbidden toys/writing instruments), I overheard that the one called “Mommy” was “lucky to have a baby who was on such a good schedule”. As they looked at me and made bird-like sounds immediately upon this revelation, I cannot but assume they are referring to me and not the small, anti-social furry thing as previously assumed. (Upon this entry, I realize it has been far too long since I pursued the little creature and attempted to apprehend the long, furry lure attached to its backside. I must make a point of being more diligent.)

Having decided at an early age of six months to plot a different course than other so-called “easy babies”, I have been making a point to escalate my late night unscheduled cuddle sessions and begun to in turn deny and then beg for foods formerly universally accepted. I cannot deny that I will always be partial to the crimson goo that is strawberry yogurt, but I have at least limited my acceptance of it to once a day and never at the same time. This seems to have made an impression on “Mommy”, as my late night sing-alongs are now primarily attended only by the clueless male. I feel for him, as it has become increasingly clear he has a speech impediment. From as early as I have been journaling, he communicates to me mostly in the repetitive “da da” sound. I personally have been capable of much more than this for months now, but that is to be expected. I have, after all, mastered the Speak n’ Say much earlier than the clumsy, red-headed oaf they call “Cousin Eugene”. 

Regardless of my obviously flourishing speech and comprehensive abilities, I must be a good example to this one. He so obviously wants to win my approval and has a habit of slipping me the delectable fried potatoes the other caretakers insist I won’t have until I’m three. As a goodwill gesture, I once reached out to him and repeated his primitive syllables. I had hoped such a return would elicit more verbalizations from him, but instead he just held me in an overly tight manner and exclaimed “DA DA!” at an even louder volume. It goes without saying that I took great pleasure in returning only blank stares when asked to repeat this sound for the others. His obvious confusion moved me only to make private and rare utterances of the sound, which has yielded more of the fried potatoes but created some consternation between him and the soft one who insists on calling herself “Mommy”. Being a person of principle, I cannot abide such presumption and refuse to give her a name. I may abate this soon, however, as my rebellion coincides with a tragic decrescendo of her time spent holding me to her lumpy areas and giving me the liquid ambrosia. Perhaps the time has come to change tactics.