The Fix

THE FIX

If I try a little harder, I could reach it. If only I was a little
taller.
I want IT! I need it. I need THAT red Freddo Frog.
She's hidden it from me. She thinks I can't see it. I know it's there.
Just how stupid does she think I am? Does she think I can't identify
the red tell-tale, crinkled edge on the book shelf, poking out from
behind that ghastly photo of me and Dad on my second birthday. The one
where I'm in the revolting, baby-ish, bruise coloured Tinky Winky dress
up outfit. Yuck! I look like such a dick! Why must parents humiliate
their children?
She thinks she's punishing me. Well, she's only punishing herself! I
would be much better behaved if I could have my daily Freddo fix NOW.
She thinks I'll learn from deprivation. Huh! All I'll learn to do is to
yell louder!
I don't know what all the fuss is about. It's not as if I've been
really naughty. God, I haven't bitten or anything. Not like that Max,
who's been biting for two years now. He's such a baby. And it wasn't
like I wasn't being a good sharer. I am a good sharer. Josie tells me
I'm the best sharer of the whole playgroup. (Josie's nice. She makes
great chocky bikkies.) Not like that James. He won't share a thing. He
takes all the toys away from the rest of us. She says James is
insecure, and that it's his mother's problem. Well, James is the one
with all the toys, so how do you work out that one? More like it's the
rest of our's problem!
All I did was to vent my disappointment at having a little sister. Not
an ordinary little sister, but a pretty, bright, and quick-grabbing
little sister. Shannon was trying to take my Thomas set. Now ordinarily
I wouldn't mind her having a little play with my set, but not today.
For today I had set up the best track system ever. Thomas, Annie and
Clarabel were thrilled to be racing around the Island of Sodor I had
created on the loungeroom floor. James and Henry had joined in the fun,
with the naughty trucks relegated to the engine sheds. Thomas and
Bertie were just about to go have a race, when Shannon grabbed the
ascending track. With one tiny, simple action, the Island had been
destroyed. It was as if a tsunami wiped the settlement. She wrecked my
track!
I hated her. I had spent a lifetime on that track - at least half an
hour - and Shannon stuffed it all up within the blink of her eight
month old eye. She's naughty. She deserved the push I gave her. It's
not my fault the coffee table hit her head. I tried the argument that I
was just trying to move her out of the way. However, she wouldn't buy
it. Perhaps it was the fact I happened to call Shannon a 'stupid idiot
baby' as my hands made contact with her little body. It's not as if she
really hurt herself. She was just crying for her attention. She always
does that. And she kisses and cuddles her, and tells her what a naughty
boy I've been. I wasn't the one who destroyed a whole village!
She didn't smack me, but I know she wanted to. She and Dad don't
believe in smacking, as 'it achieves nothing, and take Max as an
example of a child who is smacked.' They do admit they feel like it
sometimes. She often runs into the bedroom, shuts the door, and mutters
stuff like 'I'm so close to giving him a good whack...' I don't reckon
a smack would really hurt much. I think it would only hurt a little,
and for a little while. Max never seems to cry when he's smacked.
Anyway, they would never really hurt me.
A smack would be quicker than what they do. They take something nice
away from me when I have been 'a very naughty little boy'. More often
than not the something nice is my Freddo. You see, her, Shannon and me
go for a walk each morning at 10 am - just after Playschool. A walk
does us good, and she tells Dad it stops her thighs from building to
the point of chaffing as she walks down the hallway. She buys milk and
I get a red Freddo. George, the really old man at the shop, calls it a
strawberry Freddo Frog. She calls it my daily hit of artificial colours
and flavours. It tastes good, but it doesn't taste much like the real
nice strawberries we buy at the orgasmic shop.
She teases me with the Freddo. You see, even though we buy it at 10am,
I'm not allowed to have it until 4.30pm. She's so cruel. The Freddo is
supposed to be my reward for being a good boy each day. She told Dad
she chose 4.30 as the appropriate time 'cause she reckoned she could
handle a few hours of me till he arrived home, and any later would
spoil my appetite for dinner. How could you do that to your own little
boy? I think it's called emotional abuse. I turned the TV onto what she
calls some American Trash talkshow while she was in the laundry, and a
man in a suit like Daddy's said 'We musn't withhold. It's emotional
abuse. We must love our children openly.' She's withholding my Freddo!
Perhaps I could tell a policeman next time I see one. I had tried
telling Nan, but it was useless. She just laughed and said 'whatever it
takes&;#8230;'. Nan must have been really horrible to her for her to
be so mean to me.
Anyway, I reckon I won't be getting my fix at all today. It's only
11.45am. What are the chances? As I sit in my room to 'think about'
what I have done, I evaluate my play. How can I redeem myself? This one
will be a hard one to crack. Shannon's teething and woke a few times
last night to feed. She's really tired and cranky. Not my problem! It's
a bugger though, Shannon's looking particularly fragile today, so I
won't be able blame her for anything else.
I want it so much. I reckon it's worth spending a bit of time in
solitary confinement. Perhaps I could turn the really big toy box
upside down, then put the smaller, but still reasonably heavy one on
top, then maybe I could just reach it&;#8230;