Week 27: Boy Story

Type of Writing: Parody of Toy Story based on Kit moving into his room.

“Goodnight sweetheart. Love you.”

“Goodnight little one. Love you.”

With an ache in their heart, Kit’s parents closed the door.

For six months, Kit had slept by their side. In those opening few weeks when life is strange and frightening, his parents could reach through the dark to comfort and console him. At six weeks his mother looked over in the morning and to her surprise received a smile. A smile that led to her smiling. A smile that led to a “Quick, Ryan, he’s smiling.” Which in turn led to his father smiling. The smiling father filmed the moment, shared it online, leading others to smile. A chain reaction. A butterfly effect. A flap of mouth muscles precipitating a tornado of happiness. Each morning they would look over and see their son sucking his thumb, immune to coronavirus fear, impervious to political tribalism, unaware of a man named Donald Trump; and they would smile, smile at the sheer innocence of their Adam sleeping in paradise.

Now, like God in Genesis, they were casting their child out. They knew it had to be done. He was getting bigger for a start. Each person they saw commented on that. “He’s very long, isn’t he?” they would say. And they were right. He was very long. Not gangly. Not lanky. But long. Very long. No, the time was right for him to fly the nest, to set up home downstairs. Over the last few months he had taken naps in the room: to prepare him for the change. Prepare him for the change? At least, that’s what they said. Really, it was to prepare them for the change. The inevitability that their little boy would one day pack up and sleep downstairs. So in saying ‘goodnight,’ they not only closed the door on their sleeping beauty, they also closed the door on the first six months, when child and parent are inseparable.

*                                                                        *                                                                                 *

When Kit saw the landing light go off, he kicked into action. With the finesse of Houdini, he broke out of his Grobag double-quick. With the baby monitor light on, he switched it to off, and with that the surveillance state came crashing down. Now, the bars. Well, he vaulted them. Leapt them with the verve of a free runner. Horatio the hedgehog looked on in disbelief.

“Kit, how did you do that. You’re just a baby?”

“Just a baby. You underestimate me,” Kit scoffed.

“But you can’t crawl. How can you leap?”

“I am what I want people to think I am,” returned Kit.

This statement was a bit complicated for a cuddly hedgehog to get its head around, so Horatio decided to just nod meaningfully.

“I knew you would understand, Horatio,” Kit chimed. “You see, I’m just like a jester in a Shakespeare play. Playing the fool when really I’m the cleverest person in the room.”

“Even cleverer than Elly the Elephant?” Horatio didn’t think this could be possible. Elly the Elephant didn’t forget anything. She knew all the other toys date of purchase and organised their monthly anniversary.

“Even cleverer than Elly,” boasted Kit. “Just think about it. They think I can’t walk or talk or even eat for myself. I can do all those things.”

“So why do you choose not to?” A fair question from Horatio.

“Because I get the best of both worlds,” Kit laughed. “I get everything done for me during the day. Mouth fed. Bum washed. Tummy rubbed. It’s a spa weekend all year round.”

“So why has it taken you this long to show your true colours?” Another good question from Horatio. That hedgehog could be the new Paxman.

“Like I say, the best of both worlds. Have you heard the Shakespeare quotation, “Too much honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness?”

Horatio preferred naval history to fictional plays so hadn’t.

“It just means you can have too much of a sweet thing. I don’t want to get sick by feasting too heavily on laziness. I want to run around and cause some of my own mischief. But I still want to retain the right to be lazy should I choose.”

Horatio was stunned by what he was hearing. When he thought of Kit, he always thought of someone who was incredibly cute. Also, someone who was incredibly long. He never realised he could be so cunning.

“So what are you going to do tonight?”

“Oh, you know, run downstairs. Dip my hand in that tub of pick n’ mix. Rifle through the cupboards. Pull out the freezer and take out the last of the ice cream.”

Horatio had heard quite enough. “Won’t you get found out?”

“I can’t walk or talk remember. I’m hardly a prime suspect.”

Horatio was appalled at how a baby could be so conniving; it almost warranted applause.

“I’ll be off then,” Kit said, putting on his socks. (He didn’t like his bare feet on kitchen tiles.)

 

*                                                                          *                                                                              *

Meanwhile upstairs, Kit’s mum was struggling to sleep. She looked over at her husband, whom slept soundly. She looked over at the monitor, but there must have been a loose connection as no image came up. Although she wanted to be strong, to hold her ground, to only go down if she heard Kit crying, her parental instinct kicked in and she made her way to the stairs.

Entering Kit’s room she made her way over to his bed, and there she found him nestled in his Grobag, thumb in mouth, looking every inch the perfect child.

“Sleep well, angel boy.” She kissed him on the head, turned her feet and made her way back up.

When the door closed for the second time that evening, the perfect child took out the thumb and extricated themselves from their Grobag. The angel boy smiled at Horatio, waved his socks in the air and with a phew said, “Close call.”

Horatio frowned.