Mommy is lying on her back in a sea of toys on the floor. Her arms and legs extended like a starfish. This is my opportunity. As a 7-month-old, I can’t waste any more time. I quickly crawl towards her, so fast that my hands slapping the wooden floor make putter-platter sounds like a fish swimming on land.
I sat down next to the bottom of her feet, her toes pointing upwards.
Success! The distressed, red toenails had been intriguing me since I’ve been able to see color. I finally got a taste of it. Her toe fit snuggly in my tiny mouth. Quite salty, actually, but tastes better than Izzy’s shoes. I lean forward for another sample of the other toes, but Mommy flings her legs out of reach and shouts, “No biting toes, Dora!”
Mommy scowls as she picks me up and squeezes me lovingly against her chest. Maybe she secretly likes her toes bitten…
Okay, I admit it. I am attracted to bathrooms. Specifically pubic bathrooms. This newfound fetish started with the 7-day road trip when it dawned on me that I could no longer fake it anymore. Since 18-months-old when Mommy started potty training me, I always knew the concept of bathrooms and doing my business in toilets.
Fast forward 18 months later (now three years old), I am successfully still in diapers. But no way am I going to sit in a wet diaper on the car ride. I can’t even stand a drop of water on my shirt.
After four hours in my car seat, I was ready for the first bathroom stop and announced, “Potty!”. It was exhilarating watching Mommy fumbling on the map looking for the next exit while Daddy screaming, “HOLD IT!” Once we arrived at the gas station, Mommy and I bolted to the restroom.
I take every opportunity to check out the public toilets at the parks, restaurants, and gas stations. Even when I didn’t need to go. Of course, the parents never rejected me either. The word “potty” has some sort of magic to it that catches their attention and makes them drop whatever they’re doing to oblige to my command.
Perhaps I like the guessing game when Mommy points at the different placards on the doors, Men or Women. Or because Mommy always proudly cheered me on when I made a big dump; some things just never change. Or perhaps I enjoy the various bathroom designs across the nation, making mental notes to incorporate in my future lavatory. It would be very nice to have a bathroom with built-in sensors for the toilet, soap dispenser, door, sink, lights, and a full-body blow dryer – who needs towels anyways?
I did so well refusing to pee, poop or toot in the diaper during the entire road trip that Mommy decided to hide my diapers when we finally arrived at my grandparents’ home. But it didn’t last long because I regressed to my old ways. Why should I stop eating or playing with my toys when I can just “let it go”? You know, following Frozen’s instructions.
Daddy cheerfully said, “Welcome abroad to the spaceship. This is Captain Daddy. It is 4:33AM, the current temperature is 89F with 100 humidity. Please expect a delay as the flight attendant makes her final rounds.”
The dim lights overhead allow me to see everyone’s seating arrangements, Mommy to the right, Daddy in front, and Izzy behind me.
I watch Mommy intently as she starts rummaging the six small totes nested on the floor filled with baby bottles, snacks, and toys. After a few minutes, she finally zips everything up.
Daddy’s voice echoes from the front of the car, “The captain has turned on the seatbelt light. Please remain in your seat and keep your seatbelt fastened”. Mommy checks my car seat straps and tightens them some more.
Mommy reply, “We are going on a road trip to see grandma and grandpa.”
Daddy made his last announcement, “we are ready for takeoff. Please sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. The lights will dimly shortly.” A few moments later, it got dark with only the street lights peeking through the windows.
It stops and then quickly zooms forward. Mommy places something soft in my hands. I recognize the texture; it is Mrs. Elephant, my sleeping buddy. She then sets a bottle in my hands which floods my mouth with sweet, warm milk. Ahh. Now, that’s the stuff. I am not usually hungry at this hour, but I will welcome free food any day. I cling onto the bottle, chugging until I can’t drink another drop, and drifts off into a deep sleep, dreaming of hyperspace.
Ugh, my tummy hurts. But I am almost done with the puzzle!
I place the piece with Peppa’s head in the empty spot, completing the set. As a 3-year-old, this was an easy puzzle.
I start taking steps towards the couch. With every movement, my stomach pain subsides. Plop. Plop. Plop.
Mommy’s pounding footsteps echo from the hallway; she is heading to the living room.
I hope this won’t be as bad as the time I put my Little People figure on the toy potty, but I ended up unconsciously peeing on the playmat. I look down and cringe. Mommy appears in front of me while I pick up the nearest toy.
She stops in her tracks, a confused look on her face. Pointing to the floor, she asks, “Izzy, where did you find chocolate?”
I watch closely as her eyes widen in disbelief. She glances at me, then back at the brown Hansel and Gretel pebble trail on the floor. This is bad.
I crawl towards the kitchen on all fours. As a 5-month-old, I am not strong enough to walk yet. “Wahh,” a whimper escapes my mouth. I’m hungry. Where’s Mommy? She just left me in the bedroom.
I turn the corner into the kitchen. Mommy is already holding a baby bottle in one hand against her chest and a formula scoop in the other. “I’ll be there soon!” she shouts as if I was far away. Yay, it will be meal time soon! I wonder how much she will give me this time. She dips the scoop in the purple container on the table and lifts it back up, full to the brim with formula.
Mommy slowly moves the scoop higher, from waist height towards her chest where the bottle opening is. She raises the scoop higher, past the bottle. Why is she doing that? Her mouth opens wide. She plops the contents in her mouth! She smacks her lips and starts humming. “Wahh!” I exclaim. How could she!? Mommy turns towards me, startle. She chuckles and said, “Thanks for sharing your formula, Izzy. Milk is almost ready.” She proceeds to prepare my milk, dumping three scoops of powder in the baby bottle. Crying uncontrollably, I cannot forgive her. She shoves the warm bottle of milk in my mouth. My milk is never safe. How do I stop people from stealing my milk!