a letter

Dear Tobias,

Listen, kid, I understand that you've grown a bit attached to me. And don't get me wrong: I like you a lot.

I like how the gentlest tickle causes you to writhe around like you're being stuck with a cattle prod, banging your head against my chest, my arms, and occasionally the floor. (Yeah, it's probably not great for your developing brain, and you'll most likely end up incontinent and unable to tie your own shoes, but just think - this way you'll get toy trucks for your birthday for like the rest of your life!)

I like how you climb on my lap while I'm trying to eat and insist that I zoom you around like Superman. (Because once I've showed you something once, you decide that it's all you want out of life and we must do it constantly. See also: allowing you to bang around on my laptop keyboard, slinging you over my shoulder and running around in circles, aforementioned tickling.)

I like how, unlike most of your peers, you have never peed on me. (Though I've heard it said that you're the one who likes to whiz on everyone's shoes outside the office. If I ever confirm this rumor, I will skin you alive.)

But you, my small friend, are hands-down the filthiest kid here.

Your poor little baby teeth are rotting in your mouth, and while I understand that this isn't your fault, your breath is still technically classified as a biological weapon.

You have a habit of shoving huge spoonfuls of rice into your mouth, then getting bored and holding it there in a gooey, glutinous mass rather than chewing and swallowing. And then climbing onto my lap, laughing with your mouth open, and spewing your cud in my face.

You have a constant stream of snot running from both nostrils, and you flail around like a madman when I try to clean you up. Combined with your foul eating habits, this results in a nauseating mess on my shirt when you bang your face against me during tickle sessions. Worse still are episodes like yesterday's incident at the nursery, when I was bouncing you around face-to-face and you somehow managed to wedge your mucous-glazed nose and upper lip into my mouth. And I wonder why I keep getting sick.

I want to keep playing with you, I do. All I ask is that you make a token effort to clean up your act. Like swallowing your food, for example. Allowing me to wipe your nose. Keeping your slobbery, rice-speckled hands out of my hair.

And stop peeing on my shoes, you little bastard.

Kisses,
M