Following on from the first instalment of Cinnamon Cricket’s fantastical adventures, here is, you know, the next bit.
In the space of 24 hours Mum went from having a placid baby, happily feeding from her big, bouncing, life-giving breasticulars to a wild, octopus baby refusing one boob for days at a time. It turns out that refusing a boob requires Rock’n’Roll. Who knew?
Grandma, so it turns out.
Grandma and I text each other every morning. We have done since I was born because she lives far away. Even though Grandmas aren’t supposed to live far away, the up side is the cookies and presents you’re supposed to get in person, I get in the mail and mail is FUN! Although, once she did mail me crumbs. She said they started out as cookies, and I believe her… mostly. I love it when the mailman brings presents from Grandma, like when he brought me the Rock’n’Roll! I texted Grandma after the mail came to receive my instructions.
Got the CD Gma!
(Grandma sometimes calls me lollipop because I have a big head and Mum likes to dress me in stripes. I don’t mind, I can see where she’s going with it.)
What is it?
It’s Rock’n’Roll, darling.
Wow!!… what’s Rock’n’Roll?
It’s music for dancing to. Dancing and singing.
SINGING?! I ADORE singing!
I know, darling. Off you go. Have fun! And make sure you use the microphones I told you about.
Grandma told me earlier that if I ever got bored while feeding I could pretend Mum’s boob was a microphone. Only if I was bored, she said. Except, every time I fed after that, even if I wasn’t bored, even if I was REALLY hungry, I REALLY wanted to sing into that microphone! I’m pretty sure my plans for WD include singing so it’s probably for the betterment of humankind that I do use the boobophones.
Mum would sling me across her lap to feed (the older I get the less precious she is with me – there’re pros and cons to this – more of that later) and I’d give one boob a good go for a few minutes to ward off any impending starvation and then I’d tap the other boob just to make sure it was switched on and launch into a rendition of You Ain’t Nothin But A Hound Dog as if world domination depended on it (which it likely does). Rock’n’Roll is AMAZING! If you get your mouth right around the boob sucker but don’t actually latch on, the sound bounces back at you like you’re in a stadium!! I AM A ROCK GOD!! Aren’t Grandmas wonderful?!
Rock’n’Roll is not a complex genre of music, which must be why our cat hates it so much. Our cat likes jazz and Wagner and that’s it. In his country his name, Thiha means Lion, but we just call him Hoot. Hoot took an instant dislike to anything I performed into my new boobophones. I tried not to be hurt but I was really. He particularly disliked You Ain’t Nothin But A Hound Dog, which is a shame because that’s my best number so far. I think I get why he doesn’t like it, but really, it’s a bit childish. Mum ended up recording me performing that song for Grandma I do it so well. Grandma was dead proud.
I demand a visit from Grandma. Stat. I need words with her, tout de suite. This microphone business is ridiculous, but the hound dog song? A song about DOGS – seriously? No, seriously? The old woman can’t just launch grenades from across the country and not be here for the fall-out. It’s reprehensible, irresponsible, and downright capricious and I demand an apology, a statement of intention for the future, a new cushion (silk), and some lightly seared maguro tuna (preferably in a bowl crafted by Buddhist monks in Nepal, but I’ll forgo the bowl if my other demands are met).
Slave, you’ve lost control over this situation. Your child is using your mammary glands as MICROPHONES. Which part of you doesn’t comprehend the enormity of the SHAME you should be feeling right now? You need to wrestle back some semblance of order and dignity before this entire household falls even further into the mire than it already is. My people in Burma follow the custom of ana, which basically means – don’t embarrass yourself by letting your young sing into your breasts.
This entire baby fiasco was fraught from the beginning; I tried to tell you that. Remember the poo incident? Did you not learn from that? Frankly, I’m still amazed you didn’t as I took the time to smear the poo not only all over the new perambulator, but IN it too. And then, once you’d cleaned that up (and then cleaned up the vomit that was a by-product of feline-poo-induced-morning-sickness), I made the perambulator my bed and you’re still wrestling cat hairs out of the mutant’s sticky fingers. Really? I’ve taught you nothing after all these years together? ALL THESE YEARS of you loving me before the mutant was even thought about. For shame, human, for shame.
The Cat – Thiha Archibald Hootentoot the Third
Yesterday Grandma helped me work on my list of top 10 things you can do with boobs. Here it is:
- Teething cone
- Scratching post
- Ski slope (NB only for newborns, fearless ones)
- Motorbike (see above).