There are many things that make my 16 month old scream in terror. Although they seem benign, they trigger him to no end.  Here’s a list of a few of those things (written from his perspective to the best of my ability).

6 horror stories, as told by a 16 month old (if he could talk like an adult):



“One time, when I was a newborn baby, my mom cut some of my skin instead of my fingernail. She CLAIMS it was an accident and that it was a result of me wiggling too much.  IT HURT (at least I’m fairly certain it did…I can barely remember now it was so long ago)!  Some blood was produced. My mom said it was hardly anything.  Now I scream bloody murder every time she cuts my nails. Unfortunately, it does not deter her. I don’t know why she can’t just let my nails grow.  Why risk another nail cutting injury?  Besides, maybe, just maybe, I WANT my nails.  But no, she never asks me. It’s all so traumatic.”



“One time, I tried a vegetable.  It was the worst thing I EVER tasted.  Even my poop tastes better (trust me, I’ve tried both). Yet, at least once a day,  vegetables are STILL placed on my tray at meal time.  I always panic and quickly throw it off my tray as fast as I can.  Sometimes,  it’s a vegetable I haven’t tried or it looks similar to a food I like (for example, carrots can be mistaken for cheddar cheese).  I am tricked into taking a bite.  This triggers me so badly, I often end up frantically swiping all the food off my tray.  I don’t know WHAT on my tray can be trusted to not be a vegetable.  It’s really quiet stressful. I don’t know why they keep trying to give me vegetables.”



“I HATE getting wiped up after eating.  Not only is it insulting and slightly degrading, but I don’t like the feel of the washcloth on my skin.  Usually it’s too cold and a few times mom was a bit too rough when wiping me off.  I could’ve sworn she wiped some of my skin off. It was quite terrifying really. Upon looking in one of the mirrors in our house, I discovered my face was still intact. BUT STILL. Now, whenever I see a washcloth I feel triggered. I can’t help but scream upon seeing the horrifying washcloth.”



“First off, I worked hard to push the poo out, and no appreciation is given for this. People just complain once they smell the aroma of my dump.  My mom then quickly carries me to the changing table, removes my diaper, and then proceeds to wipe my butt, for what feels like 100 times. No remnant of poop is allowed to remain. The beautiful, soft, warm poop that I worked so hard to make is simply gone.  No matter how much I yell in protest or kick and wiggle, the poop is all quickly discarded.  Every time this happens, I feel like I lose a part of myself.  OH WAIT.  BECAUSE I DID!  It’s just awful, and I have to endure this EVERY SINGLE DAY. Plus, I hate being wiped up.  OHHHH! I get chills just thinking about it.”



“This is always a horrible time.  It means we have to come in from outside, which makes me angry.  I wish we could live outside.  Maybe then we wouldn’t have to get clean.  It’s only when we go inside do we have to get cleaned up.  Also, I can’t see very good in the dark.  Sometimes I bump into stuff in the dark and hurt myself.  This has caused me to resort to screaming until mom or dad pick me up.  I know they will keep me safe. Oh yes, night time also makes me tired. Night time is downright dreadful.”



“Normally, I like going places.  Sometimes I even fall asleep in the car, so the journey is quite instantaneous.  Other times, it becomes a living nightmare. Sometimes we have been in the car for SO LONG, I become completely bored of all my toys, books, and snacks.  I start to wonder… will we EVER leave the car. Suddenly, I feel quite claustrophobic, confined to my small car seat and the car. THE CAR.  It looks so big on the outside.  So deceptive.  I start to cry.  I weep as I remember the life I had before, the life before being trapped in the car seat.  My siblings, bless their hearts, have been conditioned, so they no longer complain. I can tell they want to cry too though.  Sometimes they DO speak up, asking if we are almost there.  The parents always reply, “Yes, we’re almost there.” I have determined this to be a lie.  At this point,  the allure of going somewhere is gone.  I JUST WANT OUT.  So, I respond the only way I can in such a situation.  I scream and wail until I am released from my car seat.”

Oh, the life of a baby.  What did you think of this?  Was there something I should have included?  Let me know in the comments below.  

Written by Rebekah
I'm a vegan homeschooling mom of 4, DIY addict, & natural health advocate.