WHY YOU DON'T RUN

Dear Mummy,

Only a couple of days ago, I overheard you say to your friend Ms N, that "running is against my religion, except for maybe when my kids do a suicidal run through a carpark or near a road or something".

Well I thought I'd test this theory yesterday after we left Ollie's ECD school.

After having a fun time with the play group we made our way back to the carpark.  While you were unlocking the car, getting ready to bundle us into our seats, I saw a small window of opportunity and I didn't hesitate.  My little legs started to quiver with excitement as I escaped from your grasp and scampered away from the car, back into the school grounds and disappeared around the corner of a building.  Laughing hysterically, I glanced over my shoulder and saw you and Ollie in hot pursuit.  You still weren't running but you were definitely advancing upon me.

For a moment there, we lost sight of each other but I heard you gaining momentum as you started to pick up the pace.  You still weren't running but you had commenced a sort of clumsy jog.  I giggled as you had to overtake Ollie with all the grace of a side-stepping footballer, nearly being forced to leap frog him as he got in the way.

I had practically lapped the whole building by the time you got closer and then that's when it happened.  The moment you realised I was heading back into the carpark and onto the road, true to your word, you started to run. 

Mummy, you've always chuckled at the way I race around, leading with my tummy, squinting with my eyes and throwing my head back.  I don't know why, because after seeing your attempt, I think my way is much more effective.  I finally witnessed your running style when I caught a glimpse of you over my shoulder.  You appeared to be running whilst leaning too far forward.  Your head was way out in front and your legs were oddly, a long way behind you and trying desperately to catch up.  I stopped in my tracks to turn and gape in awe, as your legs and arms suddenly sprawled and flailed haphazardly as you crashed to the ground, face-planting the cement, like you were sliding into 'first' on a baseball field.  You might want to check, but I think you left half of your skin behind on that rough concrete.  I also wouldn't be too concerned that the group of grade two students, who witnessed your fantastical stunt, will be scarred for life, as although it wasn't a pretty sight, it was pretty funny.

Dazed and confused you somehow managed to recover and drag yourself slowly to your feet.  I've never seen that look on your face before.  I know when you're being a funny angry but this glare emitting from you, was the glower from a homicidal maniac.  This did not encourage me to return to you, so with a nervous smirk, I took off again.

Under your command, Ollie, who had then caught up to me, was given permission to reprimand me and take me into custody by grabbing my shirt and holding on for dear life.  Despite my protests, I couldn't escape from his clutches.

Mummy, I do hope you'll forgive me one day, when your wounds have healed, your skin grows back, when you're able to walk without wincing in pain and when your dignity returns.

I'm sorry.  I just wanted to find out why you say you don't run.

Now I know why.

Love Linc xoxo

 

THE PICK

Dear Mummy,

I don't know why you're so opposed to me sticking my finger up my nose.

You look exasperated each time I wedge it up there and I can't understand why you become so embarrassed when I show off my talented move to other people you know.  If anything, it's now become a great game to play with you.  Lately I've taken to hiding under the blankets or concealing myself behind chairs, just to see how long I can insert my pointer finger up my nostril before you promptly command me to withdraw it.

I keep informing you that there's a bug up there but for some reason you continually insist I use one of those futile white tissue things to blow the bug out instead.  As I find my own appendage of the hand a much more effective way of digging the bug out, I fail to understand why we have to waste time using those flimsy fabrics.

Also, as you're aware, I love playing games on your phone and I've recently discovered that my favourite app now allows me to send both you and Daddy, and Grandma and Grandpa thirty second video messages.  I've since realised that this the only way that I can have a really good dig around, without being interrupted.   I'm certain that, after viewing these randomly sent videos and watching my skills develop, you will concur, that driving my finger around, inside my nose, is the best method and an extremely effective way to to retrieve those bugs.

Love Ollie xoxo

PLAY DOUGH: FAIL

Dear Mummy,

Today when you decided to make some homemade play dough, I became quite excited.  As I'm anticipating the imminent arrival of my little, out of town friend to come and stay with us for the next few days, I concurred that showing off my sculpting abilities would be a perfect way for us to bond.

I must say though Mummy, the end result of what you created was a colossal failure and something that you should never attempt to repeat again.

Although the texture of the play dough was fairly impressive I don't know what you were thinking when you decided on the colour.  You basically concocted a massive lump of camel's dung. Seriously, who makes brown play dough?


According to you, it was originally intended to be a beautiful blue mixture which would have been suitable for three small boys.  Mummy, you know I get my colours confused sometimes, but all joking aside, I know what blue should look like ... and that was not even close.

I think your first mistake was not finding any blue food colouring.  Your second blunder was deciding to become a dodgy scientist.  When you combined yellow with green and it became a horrible sickly lime colour, your patience evaporated.  You then appeared to reason with yourself that by hastily adding red, it would turn a magical purple colour.  Well that theory drowned in a gooey glob of intense murky hues.  Adding more  of green and yellow did not help the situation at all and culminated in that preposterous, unappealing, lump of poo-coloured play dough.

I'm certain you can appreciate why I was not particularly thrilled by this foreign substance.  If anything, I think you should be proud I expressed caution around something like that. Grandma even tried, in vain, to entice me to play with it by making a poo person out of it.

I was not impressed.

Finally, when I worked up the courage to touch it, the mixture was still warm.  I'm still surprised that you and Grandma looked so shocked that I suddenly ran around the house yelling out, "Hot poo! Hot poo!" over and over again.

I'm just glad Linc didn't have to witness this abomination.

Please dispose of the horrible substance immediately.  I recommend the 'full' flush.

Love Ollie xoxo

A LONELY SHOPPING EXPEDITION

Dear Mummy,

On the weekend, when you had that rare opportunity to drive away by yourself, to go shopping, we hope you didn't feel too discarded.  Linc and I were very impressed at how brave you were as you attempted to support a look of sheer happiness.  You deceptively disguised yourself with elation and even managed to appear ecstatic as you waved an enthusiastic goodbye to us.  However, the jig's up Mummy.  We knew this charade was only for our benefit and sensed you weeping on the inside because you had to venture out alone and leave us behind.

We're certain you missed our company in the car and commiserate that your trip was extremely lonely and uneventful.  You had no-one to kick the back of your car seat while you drove.  There would've been no water bottle spills to clean up and no-one to entertain you with our car seat wrestling skills.  We still don't understand how you got by without being able to shout out your funny reoccurring threats to 'stop the car' if our decibel levels didn't drop or if our rowdy behaviour didn't improve dramatically.

We fear your shopping expedition was also rather destitute.  When you returned you assured Daddy that your trip was peaceful and glorious, but we know better.  It makes us sad to think that you would've been desolate, wandering aimlessly around the shops, with too much time on your hands.  Normally we help you keep a great pace, running aisles ahead, darting in and out of clothing racks and hiding around corners.  On some occasions you confine us to the trolley, but this time you would've had no-one to sit on the sausages or the tomatoes to ensure they didn't jump out and escape.   Also, as your memory is waning a little, we're a bit distraught that you had no-one to remind you, via screaming tantrums, to buy those 'chupa chups' that you keep walking past.

It sounds as though you frequented numerous shops too.  You poor thing.  When we normally go, we only have to manage one or two stops at the most.  How dreadful it must have been to have to go to all those different places, lonesome and forlorn, without us.  We bet you wish you had our help then too.  Maybe you wouldn't have been gone for so long.

Although you courageously boasted of relaxation and achieving peace and harmony when you returned hours later, we know you were just trying to be strong for us.  Don't worry Mummy, we wont allow that to happen again and you wont have to go anywhere without us from now on. 

Whilst we felt good helping Daddy in the yard, we were overcome with guilt for abandoning you in your desperate time of need.  Please forgive us.

Love Ollie and Linc xoxo

TOILET RE-TRAINING

Dear Mummy,

I've been toilet trained and considered a 'big boy' now for almost a year because I'm able to visit the commode by myself.  I don't understand why, all of a sudden, you insist on re-training my bathroom habits and teaching me this so-called 'toilet etiquette'.

You say I should lift the toilet seat all the way up, but I discovered that by resting it on my tummy, while I go, saves time.  Also, only slightly edging my pants down so "Little Ollie" sticks his head out the top of my undies, pointing straight in the air and aimed towards my face, you call 'silly'.  I call this time management.  If I don't flush the toilet, you refer to this as being 'forgetful', whereas I justify that I'm conserving water, so I can wash my hands for ten minutes after.

When I show you I can go with my hands behind my head, while gazing up to the ceiling and gibbering about the latest bright and shiny thing that caught my attention, for some weird reason, this sends you into panic mode.  I don't believe it warrants an over dramatic response just because a little bit of wee sprays on the seat or squirts off in a long stream to pool in the corner of your ensuite. You always say we 'shouldn't cry over spilt milk'.

Last week, when we were out visiting friends, you appeared mortified when I ran over to tell the owner of the house that I had to visit the lavatory.  Normally you want me, to let you know, when the urge strikes.  I didn't think the lady would understand my special toddler language, so I thought by poking "Little Ollie" out the top of my shorts to say 'hello' and strumming it like it was an air guitar would get my point across.

I notice, you also appear to wear a similar look of chagrin on your face when I visit the latrine during our regular weekly lunch outings at the pub.  When I run through a crowd of pensioners, with my shirt already tucked under my chin and "Little Ollie" protruding from my shorts and underneath my visible belly button, my objective is not to embarrass you, but to merely express my aptitude for efficiency and demonstrate my organisational skills.

Please understand that I don't need a chaperone each time I visit the restroom as I believe I'm extremely capable of accomplishing the task at hand and do not require any further lessons in 'toilet etiquette'.   


Love Ollie xoxo



P.S.  Mummy, do you keep putting those ping pong balls in the bottom of the toilet bowl to help me with my aiming techniques, or is it solely because Linc likes to retrieve them?

A WEET-BIX KID

Dear Mummy,
 
I think I have a competitive edge over most of those professional athletes on the Weet-Bix commercials.

Stephanie Gilmore only manages three Weet-Bix in the morning.   Even Ollie, who's only three and half years old, does four.

Brett Lee reckons he does seven.  Sheesh! I was knocking that back a year ago.


Tim Cahill does an impressive nine.  That's pretty awesome because I also do nine.  The difference is Mummy, I've only just turned two years old.

I'm certain this all signifies that I'm destined to become some sort of superhuman, omnipotent, extraordinary athlete when I grow up.

What can I say?  I'm an Aussie kid.  I'm a Weet-Bix kid.


Mummy, I bet you're so proud of me for eating professional athletes under the table at the age of two! 

Love Linc xoxo

P.S.  I prefer mine straight up, in a bucket, with loads of milk and a shovel.

SNEAKY VEGETABLES

Dear Mummy,

I hope you realise that we're fully aware of the fact that you regularly attempt to sneak those preposterous objects called 'vegetables' onto our dinner plates and hide them amongst our normal food.

We have noticed though, that sometimes you're not very skilled at concealing the grotesque produce within our menu, allowing us to simply yank them out and express our condemnation by hurling them across the table or letting them 'accidently' tumble to the floor.  When you blatantly stick those sprouting green trees, orange rubber sticks or lime green pebbles on our plates, we unabashedly retort by blowing massive raspberries with our tongues or by generating nauseating gagging noises directed at our cutlery.


On some occasions, you think you win the battle, as you're able to successfully and secretly sneak in the dreaded vegetable, without evoking any flamboyant reactions from us, as we devour our meal.  However, we do hold strong suspicions that you endeavour to ruin some of our favourite cuisines, such as our beloved spaghetti bolognese or lasagne, by grating these vicious veges into the mixture.  Lucky for you, we're unable to prove this theory because we fail to locate any foreign chunks and we're able to justify to ourselves that the yummy sauce must destroy the atrocious flavour of those absurd veges anyway.

On rare occasions, like last night, you can demonstrate that you're capable of completely outsmarting us.  You at first appeared defeated when we adamantly refused to touch or even look at the baby-poo coloured, pumpkin soup that you insolently served us.  In a feeble attempt to coerce us into tasting it, you strived to make it look pretty and sprinkled those horrid lime green pebbles on top of the yellowish mash.  Mummy, this was not a clever move.  If anything, this made us more resolved to test our bowls for their aerodynamic qualities. However, we made a huge mistake and severely underestimated your sneakiness.  Suddenly you jumped to your feet, struck by a brainwave.  We initially thought you were coming over to resign from the battle and concede defeat but instead, you whooshed past us and entered the kitchen.  Watching you intently, we witnessed you rummage around in the back of the forbidden alluring pantry.  Again, we guessed incorrectly that you were searching for our 'special treat' chocolate covered biscuits to reward us for our grit and determination.

Suddenly, unearthing what you were after, you returned to us brandishing a couple of colourful, bendy straws.  OMG Mummy, how'd you know that we'd be enticed, intrigued and unable to resist the magnetism of being able to consume our dinner with a straw?  Admittedly it turned out to be a fun exercise for all of us.  Linc and I enjoyed playing with the straws and chuckled a lot while trying to avoid sucking up those green pebbles and you appeared to smile contentedly and revel in your small victory.

Bravo Mummy! Bravo!

Just ... don't get used to it!  We'll be watching out for you and those sneaky vegetables.

Love Ollie and Linc xoxo
























Cookie Monster Photo Source: http://dantania.blogspot.com.au/2012/06/damned-vegetables.html