Man alive it’s tough being me. Not only do I have to help myself to chocolate and crisps from the snack drawer, I now find myself writing for the Boss’ blog too. I say ‘the Boss’; that’s what she likes to think. But we all know who’s in charge around here, and it sure isn’t her.
Don’t get me wrong, she is very handy to have around. It’s like having a housekeeper and a childminder and a bedtime story reader and a chef AND a chauffeur. And she wipes my bum, so I will definitely let her stay. But she doesn’t half get on my nerves, and I’ll tell you for why…
Food, glorious food
First off, food. It’s a very serious subject, because a boy’s gotta eat, right? There may be 3 years between me and my big sister, but there is a measly 0.8 of a kg between us. I’m a growing lad. I’m both a grazer (I enjoy a regular stream of snacks from the moment I wake up) and I’m a 3-meals-a-day kinda guy, too. It’s a rare combo I gather, and the exact opposite of my sister who spends a good chunk of her mealtimes negotiating what she actually has to eat. Crazy.
Anyway, no-one warned me that our my kitchen is often a self-service gig. No-one else brings me the second bag of Hoola Hoops that I want straight after the first. No-one else brings me 3 Kinder chocolate bars (which is always going to be better than one). Nope, I have to do all of this BY. MY. SELF. Weirdly, snacks like these have recently started to disappear from my eyeline. I must get onto her about that.
While I’m at it, there was this one time when Mummy chopped up the rest of the strawberries and put them in a bowl and I ate them all. When I’d finished, all of the strawberries had gone. That’s right – none left. She had none in reserves, she couldn’t magic some up for me, and it was totally unacceptable. I made my feelings known that day, don’t you worry. Turns out we’re growing them in the garden this summer – so I am glad she got the message and has made reasonable efforts to rectify the ridiculous state of affairs. Unbelievable.
Oh, and on a related note – why can’t I eat the fish food?
Not so long ago I even found myself having to climb into the fridge to help myself to a yoghurt. The old girl wasn’t best pleased about that, for some reason. I did not leave a tip that mealtime.
What is it about climbing that gets her so riled? We’re all familiar with ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’; we can’t go under it, we can’t go over it…’ – well, turns out I CAN go over it and up it and any which way to get to where I want to be. Look, see – here is photographic evidence of me climbing onto the sofa; where’s the problem?
My love for domestic appliances
I love playing outside. I love soft play. I love watching Peppa Pig (Mummy does not). I love eating (obvs). I love charging around like a lunatic. But best of all – best of ALL the things to do ever – is play with the washing machine. I load it up for her, I help (sort of) pour the stuff into the drawer, I slam the door and then I press the buttons and wowsers trousers that machine goes round and round and round and round and round and it’s a sight to behold and I love it. For Easter, I got my own red washing machine. I played with it all day at my Nana and Grandad’s house, and I carried it all the way home. In the car. From Norfolk to Cardiff. I love washing machines.
Planes, trains and automobiles
I live up to the boy stereotype when it comes to cars, dinosaurs, trucks, tractors, trains and washing machines. I have a box of little cars that I like to throw around the hall – there’s wooden floor in there and they make a much louder noise when they land than they do on carpet. I like to race them down the slide in the garden, roll them into the (empty) bath and leave them scattered around for people to tread on (something I think they enjoy, because they always make a high pitched sound and hop about a bit).
I see the obvious, natural progression from here to be actual grown-up driving. My Uncle is a racing driver – it’s in the genes by default, right? Turns out – wrong. She was having none of it. I only wanted to drive up the school – it’s 5 minutes away, what’s the worst that could happen?! She spoiled my fun good and proper that day, so as punishment I didn’t leave any toy cars on the kitchen floor when we got home. Not a single one. That’ll learn her.
Offical rating: Improvements needed, must try harder
So Mummy, consider this your unofficial Tripadvisor review; you’re getting 2/5 as things stand.
You’re a useful and very cheap place to sleep/play/eat/destroy, but you need to turn the telepathy button on when it comes to my food, and lay off the Health & Safety warnings when it comes to abseiling the house. Also, if you ask me a question you need to respect my answer (she asked me the other evening what I wanted to do on Monday. I gave her a perfectly reasonable answer – “play with my winky” and she just rolled her eyes. Incidentally, that is NOT how we spent our Monday, more to the pity.)
Consider this a warning, old girl. You need to up your game, otherwise I’m outta here. In your car.
One thought on “Why Mummy gets on my nerves (written by The Boy, aged 2 and 3/4)”
Fabulous – made me chuckle! x