Tummy time

So I have to admit I reckon I’m pretty good at tummy time. I think it’s because I’m actually kind of sporty, for a baby.

Sometimes these other babies will come round and I’ll be there working out – you know, arms and legs going like the clappers. If I’m not in my gym, I’ll be doing these stretches, putting my toes in my mouth or pretending my foot’s a telephone and all that. And I’m looking at the others, thinking, 

‘Come on. What you got?’ 

But they’ll just be smiling and lolling about, looking right back at me like,

‘Can’t be bothered right now, mate. Just waiting for the next round of milk.’


Then at some point the mums’ll say,

‘Ooooh. Shall we do a bit of tummy time?’

And I’m there, eyeing up the competition, thinking, ‘My moment has come.’


Then, next thing we know, we’ll all get plonked on our tummies, and we’ll be there, staring each other out.

They’ll always be one baby who’s already face-planting a few seconds in, and I’m wanting to point it out, like 

‘Look, that kid’s out already,’ 

But his mum’ll be there trying to reposition him, which I think is technically cheating.

Then they’ll be others who are still head up, but are starting to get a bit whiny, and I’m thinking if I can just hang on for one more minute I’ll be crowned the queen of the mat.

But then my Mum’ll just suddenly swoop in for no reason and grab me. And she’ll start cuddling me saying 

‘Ah, you had enough of that, didn’t you little one?’

And I’m there, outraged, like

‘What are you doing, love? You just let Bruno win that!’


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