Tuesday, October 16, 2001
Fighting the comforter
This morning, (it was minutes before we'd leave the house to give my pseudo-mom a visit) I did some little hand-mouth coordination exercises. Grownups think I was playing with my comforter, but to me it's a real issue. Since the early days, I totally depend on my comforter in moments of sadness. Grownups have strange white burning cylinders they use for the same reason.
The problem is: I'm unable to hold it in my mouth for a long period. One wrong movement and the comforter is out. And when it's out, there's no way to get it back to where it belongs. You need an adult to help you out. And I hate to be dependent. My hands are hyperkinetic and grabby, but this little thing is just too small to handle. However, this morning, I almost managed to control the comf.
This is how it happened. I felt something in my hand (seemed I grabbed something by accident again) I lifted my hand to see what I was holding. I immediatelly recognized my biggest friend and dragged him to my mouth. Oh oh, confusion! This was not the soft suckable part I got. It was the angular surrounding part. I held it the wrong way! My hand moved around, my leggies started to kick because of the stress, it didn't help. I ended up by putting the cotton rope (used to keep the comforter from falling) in my mouth. It's also soft and suckable (although some growies say cotton in the mouth makes their flesh creep).
Monday, October 15, 2001
You all know what a box is? It's the wooden prison the Biggies invented to keep us where they want us to be. In the earlier years, we probably had a chain and a very large iron ball around our ankles. One day, an accident must have happened (perhaps a kid that wanted to put the ball into his mouth), so that the chain-and-ball combination was abandoned. It also seemed that babys were crying all the time those days. After some experiments with handkerchiefs in the mouth (you know, those saliva containers), some kids suffocated and they had to find another way to keep them silent. By accident, somebody left a little object in the box, and they found out this drew the attention of the child and made it silent. That's why there are a lot of toys in our prison today, to keep us silent.
My point is: boxes are not meant to make us happy, they're there for parent-comfort. They're the opium for the little guys. Blam! Another myth just died (with a big explosion) about your beloved ones. I hope you're close to seeing the truth by now... If it was to them, they would just love to lock you up in a small room with walls of beton cor, but those damn laws prohibit this. Education would hav been a lot easier when this was possible.
Despite the origin of the box, I like it. This is not a contradiction: a prisoner can be captured for years, but have a good time all the same. The good thing is, there are really a lot of toys in my box. And I mean a lot. At certain times, it's difficult to move around, just because my box is too loaded. Some profound redecoration is needed very often. Luckily enough, I'm very flexible and handy so I can throw toys and myself wherever I want to. I'm as curly as a caterpillar attacking a spicy leaf.
There's just one thing that can really upset me: there's a sort of mill in my box, featuring four little bears. The problem is, they're high enough to touch with my hands; but they're too high to grab. This means: I cannot put them into my mouth. This is an important criterion for happiness. The absence of saliva on the bears makes me wanna growl. Of course (no doubt here), mom and dad do this on purpose. I have to think about revenge once again.
Sunday, October 14, 2001
Yesterday it was swimming time again (I skipped a week because my saliva was a bit too ambitious) and it was mom again that dragged me through the water this time. During one of the exercises, she had to drag me to other babys, so that we could meet. Time to show my bad part. I reached out towards another cuty; this one looked at me with a face of excitement and worship, and at the time he had full confidence in me, I splashed a huge amount of water into his face. Some neat crying was the result.
The not-so-good-part was the submarine simulation: mom immersed me for minutes (at least, it felt that way; it could have been more); my face got all read at the time she pulled me out again. The only thing I could do as part of a revenge plan, was more splashing, so that her hair was all wet (women hate this).
For now, my head is heavy of the water; I guess it came into my head through all openings (ears, nose, mouth). As a result, this is an extremely short text. I apologize for bringing that little wisdom to the hearts of many.