Letter from prison

"Pssst, it's me again. Sonny. I need someone to - what's the word - bust me out. Hopefully, you believe that even babies have rights. I implore you. Should someone who's not quite seven months old be confined for many cruel hours (well, or several minutes, not excluding sleep time)?

"Well, maybe you have been reading this blog and know that I fell from a bed. But so what if I got thunked on the head? I am fine. Hopefully. But my parents have overreacted. They removed the bassinet attached to my cot, claiming I might climb out, so that I now sleep behind high walls. It doesn't matter that the walls are made of some sort of cloth fabric and are punctuated by many large holes. In fact, it is worse this way: I can see the inviting parquet flooring and my parents' comfy bed. But I can't get to it. I call this deliberately torturing me.

"In one of my parents' blog posts (they are actually proud of this, the beasts!), they told you about the 'play pen' that they bought recently. If you do not believe they would be so wicked, just click here. They lock me up there from time to time as they go about their chores. What chores? What about me (not that I "am a chore", of course)? Inside this "play pen", which is really a "detention centre", I can hardly start to turn my head before I bump into the plastic walls, which are done up in a hideous yellow-blue colour combination. Can I not have at least something subtle, in light pastels? Maybe a mural? And a ghastly sticker of a bear does not count!

"As you probably know, my parents have been recycling this really sorry excuse for confining me: I have learned to crawl in recent weeks. And I crawl good, I have to admit. Not that it was easy. But I picked up a few tips when we were watching the Olympics on television from this swimmer called Michael Phelps. I use his stroke pattern to move faster. No wonder the people at the infant care centre report that I am getting about ever so quickly. What do you expect, since I am the Michael Phelps of the nursery?

"Still, this is no excuse to jail me. I should be allowed to roam free and explore, the way Nature intended young creatures to. At home, I see so many interesting things that I want to pick up and investigate. With my mouth, mostly, since my gums keep itching for some reason (I keep hearing this word, "teething", whatever this means). Anyway, there is my father's fascinating slippers. Some exciting Ikea stools. The pedals attached to the monstrosity my mother calls the "piano". There's so much more. The world is full of exciting things when you are my age. Trust me.

"But I can't do much until I can escape this joint. So someone free me. I'm just a little baby and I need your help. If you insist on payment, I am sure we can work something out."

Yours sincerely,
Sonny