Gosh Mummy, what a lot of time and effort you have put into this delicious looking repast. Even if it transpires it is not entirely to my taste, I will certainly try a few spoonfuls to show my appreciation for your labours.
Quiet time? Good plan.
If my sister jumped off a cliff, no, I wouldn’t jump too. I understand your analogy mother, and I will apply it to the current situation, so I won’t be tipping my bowl of spaghetti on my head, just because she has.
Peppa Pig? Yawnsville.
Every single time you have taken my sister downstairs after our nap, you have come back and got me. Every single time. So why on earth would this time be different? No, of course it wouldn’t, so what’s the point in weeping into my teddy and screaming ‘Mummy! Mummy!’
Oh, is it hot? I’ll definitely give it a wide berth then.
I appreciate Playdough is not a food stuff. Nor is my sister.
I agree wholeheartedly that there is no earthly reason why, if we both sit on Mummy’s lap, we can’t read the same book.
Yes, dropping my teddy in the car, not being able to fit the lid back onto my toy teapot, and my sister taking the bit of blue lego I want (out of the ten pieces of blue lego that are all EXACTLY THE SAME) could be correctly defined as ‘first world problems’. I am very grateful indeed that I am not in a refugee camp, and the thought gives me some perspective.
I am almost two, and have a rudimentary grasp of numbers. I therefore understand that there are two of us, and only one of Mummy, and no amount of screaming is going to change the fact that she cannot pick us both up at the same time.
You’re quite right, I DID like this yesterday, I forgot. Silly me! So I will stop flinging it all over the walls in disgust.
I love brushing my teeth. I want them to be bright and clean and shiny like the tiger in my book.
On that note Mummy, PLEASE can we wash and detangle my hair tonight?
I’m a big girl now, and understand a bit about cause and effect, and also that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different outcome. That is why, after standing up ten times in a row in my cot, flinging myself backwards, and clonking my head, I will desist.
You’re right Mummy, the amount of food under my highchair COULD feed a small African village. The guilt that provokes will make me much more neat and tidy in future.
It’s Sunday morning. You could do with a nice easy start to the day Mummy. We’ll just play together quietly with the lego while you lie on the sofa and watch Sunday Brunch.
Dear Nice Doctor Man. I appreciate that your role is to diagnose what is wrong with me, and to do this you need to do things involving thermometers and peering in my ear and throat. I will cooperate, and won’t start screaming like a banshee the instant I round the corner into your surgery, burying my face in Mummy’s shoulder, and digging my claws into her neck sobbing ‘no! no! no!’ I realise, of course, that the light the thermometer throws on my forehead will simply bounce back and tell you how hot I am. It will not bore into my brain. You are not Darth Vader. I know that the medicine you prescribe is to make me better, and I will gulp it down greedily, instead of gurning and gagging and spitting it in Mummy’s eye. It tastes of banana after all. I like bananas, so I like banana medicine. I am consistent like that.
Daddy, please stop burping in front of us. It isn’t funny.
I would never draw on anything apart from paper. That would be naughty.
It’s been almost two years now that we’ve been weaned. In that whole time Mummy has never put us in our highchairs, strapped us in, put our aprons on and then NOT given us food. So I will sit patiently and wait for my sister to be ready before Mummy serves our meal. I know that whinging and banging the table is not going to make it come any quicker.
Dangerous you say? Well, I certainly won’t be touching that again!
If I had a tail, I wouldn’t like someone grabbing it, so there is NO WAY I would do that to my lovely cat.
The blue cup is exactly the same as the pink cup, apart from the colour. They both have the same amount of milk in them, see? That’s why I am not at all fussed which one you give me.
Mummy is not a vulnerable territory and I am not Napoleon. I do not need to seize possession of her and ward off my sister shouting ‘no! no! Mummy! Me! Me!’
Oh dear, is my sister poorly? You can certainly give her more attention.
I couldn’t possibly have more pudding. I didn’t finish my main course after all.
I love my twin. I am truly blessed to have her. I have the precious, and rare gift of a soulmate for life. Why the blazes would I want to pull her hair?
Sockets and cables? Dull, dull, dull.
Seeing as my vocabulary is advanced enough to include ‘pate’ and ‘bamboo’ I will definitely be asking for things quietly and by name, rather than screaming like a torture victim on the rack and flinging my arms around randomly expecting Mummy to guess. I know that the former approach is much more likely to lead to a swift and positive outcome whereas the latter simply leads to long drawn out frustration all round.
Is it my sister’s turn? OK. I’ll wait till she’s finished playing with it then. I have 1001 other toys after all.