As far as I know, there is no fancy dress party, I have a wardrobe of perfectly adequate clean clothing, and my parents have never been certified as clinically insane. Yet today without prior warning or concern for my credibility, the one with the food dressed me in this. As the smartest ten week old blogger on the web, you will not be surprised to discover I have done my homework. Turns out that this ridiculous ensemble (which I was wrestled into against my will) has been designed to mimic that of an elderly chap, going by the name of Father Chris Moss. I have a few issues -
1) I have a Dad, thanks very much. Yes, he can be a bit slow on the uptake, but he aims to please; he rocks me to sleep, sterilises my dummies and caters enthusiastically for my bowel movements (although he’s not allowed to dress me as Mum says he picks the ‘wrong things’.). This fella’s has wiped, scrubbed, mopped and dabbed all aspects of my unmentionables. He’s seen parts of me I’ve never seen. I’ve shared too many secrets to go putting his nose out of joint.
2) Having Googled this Father Moss chap, it appears that he has quite a history of breaking and entering/burglary. Let’s get one thing straight. I was brought into this world by two consenting adults. Two consenting adults who have no right to insinuate that my arrival in their lives was in any way unlawful or illicit. The very idea that I should be compared to an aged delinquent is thoroughly offensive. And anyway, I’d never enter anyone’s life by dropping down a chimney...never again.
3) People like dressing babies up as cute things – angels, fairies, Disney princesses. But never in all my seventy five days have I heard of someone dressing up their child as an white haired elderly gentleman. Alright, I’m bald and carrying a little baby fat, but comparisons to a male, beer bellied pensioner are more than a little harsh.
And I’m supposed to be okay about all this. In fact, not just okay, but actually sit and smile for a photograph.