Today was the first time Baba dared to hold me for any length of time. While Mummy went to get herself showered and dressed (”not good to spend all day in your jimmies Mum!”). Baba was holding me as he ‘held the fort’... and boy, I fought!
He’s such a scaredy cat, not knowing what to do, which way to hold me, how tight to hold me. Sensing his fear, I yelled.
”I’m not a blinking cut glass vase, Baba!” If only I could talk.
Talking to him will come later. Sicking on him will have to do for now.
Baba is such a windbag and showoff. He loves the sound of his own voice, (I love milk myself). I think he thinks that using big words to me will give me a good vocabulary (whatever that is).
I’m trying to get used to my name, Lily. It sounds good and Mummy and Daddy chose it well because it’s short, easy and sweet... like me!
But silly old Baba... he’s got to be different. He’s got to make it complicated (whatever that means). He’s started calling me Micro Gorgeous. Apparently I’m the third generation of Gorgeouses. A tradition he says.
Looking up at him today, he seemed so helpless.
“Get a grip Baba” I wanted to say.... but he was beyond help and words were beyond me for now.
He lifted me out of the lovely warm, soft sleeping device, silly man. OK, so I sounded a bit grumpy... and was! He held me to his chest... and I have to tell you, ”I was NOT impressed!”
”Call that a chest, do you?” I needed to say. ”Surely you’ve got something bigger than that? I mean, I’m hungry man!”
(I really think Baba needs postnatal classes... and a chest transplant.)
I gazed at Lily in her cot. Her pretty face so peaceful. We were going to formalise her entry into the world by registering her birth. I knew that if she woke, all hell would break loose.
“Lovely Lily, look at you... you must feel so secure, with your Mum, your Dad, your brother (the little one who spontaneously kisses you) and all us grandfolks going gooey over you. I wonder what you’re thinking?”
”Baba, wake me up and I’ll be thinking ‘Where’s my milk, why do my guts hurt and how long’s she gonna leave me sitting in poo?”
Wouldn't it be great if I could communicate better with these enormous brutes. I communicate, oh yes!... but they don't understand my language. Given the limited vocabulary that weebies like me have, you would think those guys would catch on a bit quicker!
For instance... I'm often just hanging out, doing stuff, minding my own business, then whoosh... I'm attacked! I'd done nothing except rub my eyes, ears or nose. They whisk me up and brutally slap me down on my back in that contraption, sometimes manacling me and jiggling it around until I lose consciousness.
Child abuse, nothing lezzzzzzzzzzz!