Cross-posted at Mme Scherzo
When I was but a wee tomrig of two, I was a consummate gymnosophist, refusing to wear even the drugget my mother fashioned for me as a diaper. She would cry in horror, “You’ll die of the murrain if you don’t keep clothed!”
Of course, this was a situation that could not go on, and my mother prorogued my right to flit about in the altogether, while I, all of two, could only whimper in protest. Her words were more bitter than suckling upon a cruet of vinegar. Wefadged, she more forcefully, that I would not only wear the drugget, but also the outer attire she put on me at the beginning of the day.
Being small and unlanguaged, my tantrums against this injustice were an epopee.
Alas, my dear mother had no ear for my unreasonable rhymes and resorted to a most painful curative for my froppishness.
She promised me that if I would behave and wear my clothes, I would get pudding for dessert.
I smiled, and fadged to wear my togs for the whole day, with the understanding that there was a reward of pudding for doing so.
And so I spent the day playing nangerly in my play yard, dreaming of pudding, mypeckled face a beacon of chocolaty hope for the after-dinner.
Alas, after-dinner produced the hard hoped-for pudding, and I, instead of being grateful, as all children should be, diffided that I didn’t WANT the pudding.
Mother sat silently as I crossed my arms and put out my lower lip. “You WILL eat your pudding!” A war of attrition had begun and I was determined to win it.
So was mother, whose peckled face became a rash of seething red, and a fumidheat shimmered above her even redder hair.
Spilth! Went the pudding down my face, which had opened into a screaming maw of rage and chocolate.
She smiled in triumph, having won her battle with me.
But I won the war, for no sooner than I was baptized in pudding, I once again found myself happily disrobed.