Not quite Newton

Mummy asked little brother today what makes Acorns fall to the ground.

“Graberty”, he replied, with a smug look on his face.

Make mine an espresso, please Mummy

Sshh! Don’t tell anyone, but baby brother’s favourite bedtime drink is still Mummy’s milk (milk in a cup just doesn’t taste the same, he told Mummy recently). But it seems his taste buds might be growing up.

Last night, he broke off from his feed to look up at Mummy with an impish grin.

“Is there a button for coffee?”, he inquired.

Not quite what the Dietitian said

“If you eat all your breakfast”, baby brother reminded us the other morning, “it gives you enemies.”

What have I done with my pocketses?

After Mummy got him dressed this morning, Baby Brother played quite happily for a few minutes. To his delight, he found a penny on the floor. But seconds later he noticed something which put him in great perplexity. He went running to the fount of all wisdom. But she was in the bathroom, so he had to make do with Daddy.

Patting his shorts, and lifting up his tee-shirt, Baby Brother really did look most concerned.

“Where have my pockets gone, Daddy?”, he asked.

Thus it fell to Daddy to explain that, since pockets are not known for spontaneously detaching themselves from garments, it was most likely that Mummy had dressed him in shorts without pockets that morning. And, clever Daddy that he is, he guessed at the question behind the question, and suggested a solution.

“Why don’t you put that penny in your money box instead?”

Great Grapes

One thing that Mummy and I have learnt about baby brother is that he doesn’t like running on empty. If his internal fuel gauge should happen to dip into the red, we all know about it - the grump-o-meter goes through the roof.

To make sure this doesn’t happen, Mummy plys him with snacks – healthy ones, of course - throughout the day. Never mind hollow legs: I think he has a Tardis for a stomach.

This morning it was grapes and bread sticks on the menu. But baby brother was being a bit picky.

Reaching into his bowl, he fished out an especially large grape.

“No like this one, Mummy”, he wined¹, “Too sturdy.”

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1. Sorry – couldn’t resist! It was more a mild complaint.

Mummy’s little helper

It was Granny’s birthday last week. I planned her a delicious party picnic – and then left Mummy and Baby Brother in charge of packing it, whilst I kept Granny occupied (watching TV).

And Baby Brother was very keen to help.

“Do with these, Mummy?”, he asked as he got the salad vegetables out of the shopping bag.

“We need to wash those”, said Mummy, back turned, busy making sandwiches.

A few minutes later, sandwiches now neatly wrapped in foil, Mummy turned her attention to the salad. But she couldn’t find those vegetables anywhere.

“What did you do with the vegetables?”, she asked her little helper. For answer, he led her to the corner of the lounge, and pointed to his toy washing machine – wherein was a jumble of carrots, tomatoes and a cucumber.

“Washing them, Mummy”, he explained, clearly proud of his ingenuity.

The rest of the picnic came together without mishap, until:

“I think we’re going to have to squash this down”, said Mummy looking at the now brim-full cool-bag, with yet another box in her hand. She didn’t notice that Baby Brother had the Pork Pie in his hand, holding it out to her to be packed.

What she did notice, moments later, was Baby Brother jumping up and down – on top of the Pork Pie.

“What are you doing, baby?” she asked, hastily retrieving the pie from under his feet.

“Squashing it, Mummy”, replied her ever helpful son.

Not such an Open Mic

Baby brother was playing with a little friend today. Little friend had a microphone – a real microphone, though not plugged in – and was singing away to himself and, no doubt, an adoring crowd.

Tiring of that game, little friend put the microphone down and moved on to something else. So baby brother seized his chance. He picked up the mic, and began to croon.

But his playmate was having none of it. He rushed across the room and grabbed the microphone back.

Baby brother just looked at him scornfully.

“Doesn’t work anyway”, he said.

Sausages, or … ?

I don’t know whether I should tell you this or not, but, well – I’ve started now: little brother, in his younger days, had nudist tendencies. If Mummy offered him some nappy-free time, he’d jump at the chance, usually straight up from where she’d been changing his nappy.

On one such occasion, Mummy was in the kitchen getting tea ready, when baby brother came running in. His face was a picture of dismay.

“What’s the matter, baby?”, asked Mummy.

“Sorry, mummy – sausages!”, he replied, pointing to the lounge where he had been playing.

I had a peep. Sure enough, in the middle of the room were two brown – well, were they sausages, or …?

Do I have to grow up?

Up the creek without batteries

Little brother (two next month – can you believe it?) was piloting a ship in the park the other day. Mummy and I were the passengers. I don’t know where he was taking us, but it was certainly via the scenic route.

“Are we there yet?”, I asked him.

“No, sorry. Run out of batteries. Need new ones”

He jumped out of the ship and tinkered around with something at the back.

“That’s better”, he said, as he scrambled back on board. Some commentary followed, something about fishes swimming around us. Then finally, the news I’d been waiting for.

“We’re here!”, he announced.

“Well,” I remarked to Mummy as we jumped down from the boat and headed for the swings, “he’s quite a one for his imagination.”

Not one, but three

Daddy came down stairs this morning to find me arranging bits of coloured cloth on the floor of the lounge.

“So what’s going on here?”, he inquired.

“We’re playing beaches, Daddy”, I told him.

He looked bemused. “So how does one play beaches?”

“Oh Daddy”, I  sighed. “It’s not one, it’s three. There’s me, and Mummy, and baby brother.”

Taking the other biscuit

A friend of ours held out a biscuit to Little Brother yesterday, a Malted Milk. In ordinary circumstances he would have received it with much rejoicing.

Not this time.

His beady eye had spotted, on the plate in her other hand, a Party Ring, blue and yellow icing glistening glossily.

“No, tank ooo”, he said. Then, pointing, “Dat one!”

On Paddling Pools and Potty Training

I was reflecting this morning, as I ate my breakfast, that if Mummy follows the same schedule with baby brother as she did with me, then she’ll start potty training him at just about that time of year when the sun gets its act together and warms the garden enough for the paddling pool to come out. He’s two in June, you see.

I pictured, in my minds eye, the possible consequences, and elaborated upon them to Daddy as he sat down to enjoy his toast.

“So”, I concluded, poking a bread-stick in my dippy egg, “if you see any funny coloured water, beware of it”

Happy New Year

My Christmas

Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a new sparkly outfit, and some new participants for my stories. So here they are:According to Mummy, it is also obligatory for baby brothers to be dressed in cute outfits on their second Christmas. So here he is:And Christmas time is all about peace and goodwill. So here that is:And isn’t there something about Christmas trees? Here’s one we found in the forest, when we were out on a walk. I’m guessing the wood elves did it:

Happy Christmas

Happy Christmas to you all, loyal subjects dear readers (sorry, snapped out of Princess mode now). Here are some Christmas images I drew for you to ponder:

A Crackin’ Good Tale

As Daddy brought my dippy egg to the breakfast table a few yesterdays ago, his hand wobbled and the egg fell off the plate.

“Daddy!”, I admonished him,  “Look at the poor egg. It’s shell-shocked!”

Farmyard Fact

“Did you know”, I said to Daddy this morning, “that Chickens which aren’t married can lay eggs – they just don’t have chicks in them.”

King of the Castle

Story Time

Baby brother is quite into books, and I’m quite into reading them, so we make a happy couple!