We are under imperial rule chez Mind The Baby these days.
The little emperor has drawn up a new constitution and apparently everything is now his.
(yes, you read that right)
“Baby’s book.” “Baby’s spaghetti.” “Baby’s coffee”.
You see where this is going, I’m sure.
We’re also receiving specific instructions about how things are done. Food must be presented in the right way with the right accoutrements arriving in the right order. Bedding down for the night might include receiving Peppa, then “water to drink”, then maybe a few trains in that order, and only that order.
Directions are also important under this new regime. “No, mama!” “Baby do it!” “DADA!!!!” shouted from the top of the stairs to indicate his presence is required.
I felt like I was in a scene from Fawlty Towers last weekend when heading up the stairs for nap time. The presence of a half-eaten croissant was required on a plastic plate, which he insisted on carrying himself while trying to mount the stairs (“self, self mama!”), while I pathetically tried to balance the plate, coming at it from the side, without been seen to be helping and also avoid a stairs-hoover later. Given the crankiness of the pre-nap hour, needless to say it didn’t end well. But by God we tried! 🙂
So HE owns everything, HE’s in charge of where we all are at a given time and what we should be doing, and HE is the general ruler of the roost, full stop.
It. Is. Gas.
Interestingly, the only thing he doesn’t seem to own is his own gas. A little escaping windy pop from a nappy-clad bottom usually illicits a finger pointing at the nearest individual:
“mammy poo!”, “daddy poo!”
or on one particularly hilarious occasion,
He’s no fool, my little prince.