Clearly though, knowing Mommy, I needn’t have worried because after a short pause, as if to gather her thoughts, the praying continued: “It’s just that I’ve never looked so good in a bikini and just because I’m giving up breastfeeding, it doesn’t mean that I want to have to give up on my new, milk-charged cup size. Dear God, please let me keep them – don’t you think I have earned them?”
Well, BRAVO Mommy. Applause. Really, well done. Not only did you at first scare the living hell out of me, but now you’re scaring me on a whole new level; by praying about your new breast friends, you’ve actually managed to break your own superficial records and graduated from the “Questionable” to the “Outrageous” category of “The Shallow Games”. Seriously, I hope that your cleavage goes back to match the depth of your personality...
And on that boobshell, let’s close the chapter of me as a baby and move on as I am now taking my first steps towards becoming a man. Yes, that’s me; Mr. Grumpbox el Grandissimo! From now on, Daddy and I have got it covered. We had a good run Mommy, but you can take a step back now as Daddy and I embark on our journey - like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!
Seriously, I can’t wait to spend more one-on-one time with Daddy who until now, hasn’t necessarily been like Jesus (you know the guy that everyone is talking about, but no one has seen), but also hasn’t exactly been a “Mr. Mom” either. But that’s absolutely fine with me. Sure, when I’m with Daddy, every so often the nappies go on backwards, my dummies are nowhere to be found or I have a burp the size of a football which he fails to acknowledge. But overall, the time spent with Daddy is serious chill-out time. There’s no “lying on my tummy training”, no intrusive body care (I seriously couldn’t care less if my ears need cleaning or not) and most of all, no running in and out of shops looking for the latest “must haves” for Mommy’s closet. No, when I’m with Daddy we hang out like dudes and do things our way. We watch the footie on TV, we lie on our backs for as long as we want and we keep to the basics when it comes to grooming. Nose sprays, cotton pads and q-tips we leave for someone else to have fun with.
As for the feeding, eating with Daddy is the best. No joke. All I have to do in order to swap the yellowy sludge-looking veggie puree for a sweet fruit treat, is to close my mouth and turn my head once in each direction. Not one to spend an afternoon coaxing mashed potato and broccoli into my mouth, this cheap trick works without fail as I hear Daddy mumbling to himself that “at least the baby won’t go hungry until Mommy gets back”. Not that Mommy has any supernatural powers allowing her to feed me all those healthy vegetables. Much to my annoyance, she just possesses the persistency of a hungry bulldog with a bone and hence won't give up until the plate has been scraped bare.
Dealing with Mommy’s feeding tenacity is however not the only challenge associated with this growing up and eating thing. For once the carrot and pea mash has been duly consumed, it is inevitable that it also comes out the other end. And THAT my dear friends is a whole new ball game. OMG, now I know why Daddy sometimes takes so long when locking himself into the loo... Jeez! Getting proper food out of your system is some heavy sh*t (if you’ll excuse the pun). Whereas, in my younger days as a pure lactarian, the stuff would almost come out on its own, I now have to brace myself for a daily struggle the likes not seen since the battle of Somme. I mean, all of the sudden, I look like Rebel Wilson swallowing a whole chilli and have noises coming out of me that I didn’t even know I could produce!
Christ, becoming a man is really much harder than I thought. Mommy may be praying to keep her buns, but she has no idea what it’s like to lug ones around that you would much rather lose... So now if You’ll excuse me, I need to get back to business. “Can someone please pass the prune puree?”