Toddlers Should Be Illegal and I Have Evidence

Trying to peacefully pack luggage in a brown household (as if)

As I procrastinate packing for my trip, sprawled half on my side table with my head on the rocking chair—rendered to function as a makeshift surface to lie upon, despite the two perfectly conditioned beds in my room—a messy ponytail peeks out of my suitcase, followed by big blinking eyeballs…

Help!

There’s livestock in my bag!

Before I can bring out the taser (mosquito-killing racket), an astoundingly soft giggle escapes the demonic creature.

After further inspection, it turns out it’s just the female imp my sister-in-law brought into this world three years ago.

“What are you doing in my suitcase, luv?” I ask my niece, building my barriers up in case my heart gets persuaded by her cuteness.

“I came to help you pack,” she smiles, conjuring all the innocence that had escaped the previous two generations.

Hmm. Nothing prepares you for when a child decides to be unsolicitedly helpful. Therefore, as a sane person, I scan the room for her little minions (her older brothers) to jump me from my blind spot. When nothing suspicious transpires, I shrug and continue doomscrolling.

Just as I once again begin to mentally dissociate through digital overstimulation, my father knocks me back into cognitive resumption.

“Was there an earthquake only your room felt?”

I confusingly get up from my perfectly uncomfortable position—feeling my skeleton complain—only to find the neatly stacked clothes inside my suitcase now on the floor, like they’ve never seen good days. Before I can do a full detective squint, tiny hands from inside the suitcase throw a pair of socks in the air with the precision of a basketball player.

“Bella!” I shout scandalised, freezing the rogue monster. She slightly raises her head out like the graceful queen she is, who wouldn’t ever dream of indulging in such impolite shenanigans.

Noticing my betrayed stance, she unclenches her hand from a shirt that was surely going to be used as another proxy basketball.

“I’m sorting out the clothes,” she provides an absolutely rational explanation, regardless of prospective disagreement from the disoriented state of said clothes on the floor.

“Out! You are no longer invited to my room!” I try to keep my calm but remember both my parents’ genes blocked that emotion from passing on to me.

My niece runs right into my father’s arms with her crocodile tears, “Your daughter is yelling at me. Yell back at her!”

By the seventh grandchild, I’ve become accustomed to watching my parents adopt the softness that was scarce… umm… twenty-four years ago…

So, colour me unsurprised when my father proceeds to give me a fake scolding, promising the little goblin candies and everything sweet in the world, whilst I am left to my own devices with half my wardrobe on the floor, crying for help.

THE AUDACITY OF THIS CHILD!

— Fatima Z. (The worn-out phupho)