3.00am: The sound of pooing wakes me up; a long, sputtering squelch like someone squeezing the last out of a shampoo bottle. It takes me a couple of minutes to realise the smell’s coming from my own backside. I’ve obviously woken mum, as the light is turned on (MY EYES!) and she goes about changing me. She’s kind of smiling, and making half-hearted attempts to sing to me, but I can see in her eyes that she’d much rather be in bed, head back, snoring away. For good measure, and just because I can, I dip my heel into my own poo as she’s in the middle of taking my nappy off. She growls, which I think is pretty funny, so I do it again, this time with the other foot. Then I kick around a bit.
Cleaned up, and skin reeking of Wet Wipes, I’m back in bed, and she’s tucked a tiny teddy bear under my arm. Man, this thing stinks. I wish I possessed the motor skills to lob it out of the cot. I don’t, so it just lies there, looking at me with empty black eyes.
5.00am: Man, I’m hungry. I could murder a steak right now, but because of my stupid digestive system it’s pretty much just milk. I would should “MILK!” but I can’t quite form the words properly, so I just cry instead.
This time it’s dad coming to get me. He does not look happy. I’m carried downstairs as we go into the kitchen and he heats up my bottle in the microwave. I was breast fed once, but I decided to chew on my mum’s nips so much she couldn’t bear it any more. Now I just rub my gums on a Tommee Tippee teat, which is what I imagine chewing on Pamela Anderson’s boobs tastes like.
Man, that milk’s good. It’s a shame that dad keeps falling asleep and making the bottle fall out of my mouth. Every time he does, I claw his face until he wakes up and apologises insincerely. He thinks I don’t understand what he’s saying. Fool.
It’s burping time; I love this. Getting my back patted and rubbed is like having a Swedish massage, although unfortunately administered by a man who is half asleep, rather than a blonde bombshell who can’t speak English. Never mind. I belch in his ear, a throaty wet sound that I’m quite proud of. A little bit of sick comes out, tastes gross. I dribble it down my chin so it’s not my problem any more.
9.00am: Just did another poo. This one was a bit more silent in the execution; mum and dad figured it out when the smell hit them. For some reason, even though they know it’s me, they lift me up and sniff my bum. SO embarrassing. They did it once in front of that girl from playgroup, the cute four-month old with the chubby thighs. I nearly passed out with the humiliation. Got them back later, though: puked on mum’s new top, all down the back. A bit even went in her hair. Result.
1.00pm: It’s come to my attention that I sleep for most of the day. This is pretty awesome.
3.00pm: We’re at some relative’s house: I can’t identify who it is, but I can tell you it’s a woman, as I’m face-deep in her cleavage at the moment. Ugh…why does she have to wear such strong perfume?! That smell’s going to stick to my forehead for weeks. I give her a few smiles, and she gets all excited. Daft human. Like putty in my hands – not that I’d be able to do anything with it, apart from stare at it for a bit and then mash it in my own face.
4.00pm: In the pram, on the way home. Mum’s all like, “Look! It’s a doggy! Woof woof!” She has no idea how clued up I am. On the outside, I do some sweet gurgling smiling thing. Inside, I’m like “Yes, mother, if I’m not mistaken, a border collie, pedigree probably.”
5.00pm: On the floor, surrounded by toys. The colours are really bright, man, kind of psychedelic. Yeah, I know the word ‘psychedelic’. I get all excited and kick my legs, and then try to roll over. Can’t quite make it. Feel a bit daft.
6.00pm: Bedtime, and that stinky teddy again. As mum puts me to bed, I hear her talking to dad about how “this could be the night that he sleeps through.” She’ll be lucky.
10.00pm: Awake. Crying.
12.00am: Awake. Crying.
2.30am: Awake. Pooing.