Mummy has made us have a big think about all the things we can do and not do as we approach the grown up age of one year old to make her a saner and happier Mummy. Spoilsport.
- Our dawning understanding of ‘object permanence’ combined with ‘a sense of humour’ has led to much hilarity. Previously, when we dropped something, we thought it had disappeared for ever, most probably into Baby Jake’s windmill. But now we know different, ha! When we drop something, IT’S STILL THERE, so Mummy has to pick it up, which is VERY funny. Especially when it’s a spoonful of pasta Bolognese. Or a bit of half gummed toast. Or an unnaturally adhesive dollop of banana porridge. But we know if we keep on doing this Mummy is going to conduct an experiment to see how long she can go without obsessively mopping before organic life creates a whole new planet under our highchairs.
- We will play with the toy we have instead of snatching the one our sister has. Especially given usually the toy we have is the one we snatched ten seconds ago. The toy we have is just as interesting, if we give it a chance. Don’t shatter its self esteem. Heck, it squeaks.
- We understand that shouting ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ repeatedly in Mummy’s face is a bit of a diss given she knows the words to ‘wind the bobbin up’ and he doesn’t.
- We will accept the fact that Mummy is not trying to poison us with arsenic laced butternut squash, and humbly submit to the programme of experiencing new tastes and textures. We will not screw up our faces after two spoons and begin rocking and shrieking in an attempt to alert the outside world, nor grab said spoon and smear the contents over our faces and tights. We will also grasp that the table/walls/chairs do not need the water in our cups to keep them refreshed, but we do.
- When we are having our nappies changed, we will not try to ‘help’ by putting our hands in the contents and having a good smear. In fact, we will concentrate on trying very hard to be the world’s first potty trained one year olds.
- We will stop trying to pluck Fred the cat.
- We will accept the fact that Mummy is not (yet) capable of bending the laws of the universe and thus cannot be in two places at the same time. Therefore if she is bent over our sister’s cot kissing her goodnight, we will not have an eppy at the gross unfairness of it and will instead wait our turn like the generous soul we are.
- Much as we are Children of Waitrose we will try not to scream the place down whenever we go into a lesser shop so that Mummy might actually be able to enjoy the wonder that is Cheshire Oaks Outlet Village and buy some clothes in a colour designed not to show up babyfood. And buy some babyfood.
- We will concentrate really hard on learning to crawl. We understand that the Health Visitor might descend at any time for our 9-12 month development screening, much in the manner of an Olympics doping inspector, to test Mummy us. We understand that if we fail this test, despite Mummy’s repeated attempts to point out that we were premature and twins tend to be months behind anyway, we will be sent to live in Makka Pakka’s cave and sleep on a bed of stones. We will cram, as if our lives depended on it, with the Rocky theme music pumping out of our swing chairs. Our aim is to perform synchronised crawling on command with a few triple salcos thrown in. Just because.
- We will understand that whilst it is perfectly acceptable to cry when we are bone tired (after all, we’ve been up TWO HOURS), starving or sitting in our own excrement (Mummy would), there is no need to cry when 5 seconds has passed without being handed a new toy to play with/Jeremy Kyle’s stopped/Mummy has had the audacity to go to the loo (hasn’t she heard of nappies?)
- We will acknowledge that Mummy’s hair is attached to her head. As is her nose. And her ears, bizarrely.
- When we fly to Portugal in May, we will sit serenely on our parents’ laps and enchant all the passengers with our impersonation of two silent cherubs from the Sistine Chapel, only interrupted by frequent snoozes. We will not wriggle, require regular walks up and down the aisles, wail, scream, vomit over the person in the chair in front, throw toys to trip up airhostesses, cause passive aggressive fellow passengers to tut and purse their lips, get our fingers trapped in the seatbelts or any other activity which Mummy, in an already severe state of anxiety, is imagining and will require her to seek acute psychiatric treatment when she disembarks. We fully understand these terms and conditions, if not met, may result in us being eBayed.
Most importantly of all, we are going to continue being the smiliest, giggliest, cheekiest, snuggliest, funniest, most edible girls in this hemisphere, and the other, and we’ll keep on grinning at Mummy as she comes into the nursery and lifting up our arms for a cuddle and gazing into her eyes so deeply she can see her heart reflected in our own, a heart we render as squidgy as Playdough . And we understand if we do that well enough, none of the above applies.