Two Hundred and Seventy Seven - 23.09.14
For a while now you've been quite selective of your own attire. And when I say selective, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you're insistent and determined and stubborn and, well, difficult. What's a Mumma to do? This one chose to take heed, and listen. Because at the end of the day, it is your body, and they are just clothes. We've started a lovely routine, you and I, whereby I'd open your cupboard, offer you a couple of choices, and you'd generally take no notice and pick out an outfit for yourself. It was just the way it had to be, and I accepted that. What threw me was when your need to style moved beyond your own wears, and headed straight for mine.
I've got a pretty set Mumma uniform. Jeans or leggings - and yes, as pants. Shock horror! A long tee. Throw on a cardy, and really, that's it. I'm set. Does it leave me looking fab? Probably not. Am I comfortable? Is the rhetorical? But comfort is no longer all that matters. Just ask Miss Almost Three, going on Twenty...
Big: "No Mumma. You meed to wear dis yellow one if you want to be stywish."
Two Hundred and Seventy Eight - 24.09.14
The change of season came and went. It hit you hard, little lady. Hard. More than a sniffle and cough and an increase desire to snuggle. Instead, we had a running tap for a nose and a bark and a genuine need to be held close. There were tears and fevers and stolen sleep. There were doctors trips made by us, and one made to us in the wee hours of the morning. There was one poorly babe, in you.
The poking and the prodding and the testing this and checking that is never fun. Especially when your temperature is raging and you're running on empty. But even through you manage a smile. Just a hint of one, but enough to know that it was there and that you would be okay. Because those doctors, well, don't they know that under your chin is the more ticklish spot out? Who cares about checking glands? My word, that tickles!
Two Hundred and Seventy Nine - 25.09.14
You've thrown yourself head first into letter learning, desperate to know and learn and grow. I'm more than willing to oblige - after all, students who want to learn are a rare breed. You've come a long way from the early days where I was certain that you could recognise your name, when really it was a simple case of you differentiating between letter and numbers, which I should add, is no mean feat for a wee little thing like yourself. Power to you, sweet girl!
Given the egocentric nature of little people, the obvious place to begin was with the letter 'T', the leading letter of your name. You took to sounding and tracing and writing it like a duck to water, commentating your every action along the way. And now, you've taken it upon yourself to claim ownership of anything and everything that has, or forms the shape of a 'T' as your own. Mail. Two single pieces of penne pasta. Daddy's cufflink. The outline of car parks. I've come to know this quite obviously logical toddler behaviour. And more than that, I adore it. With a capital 'T'.
Two Hundred and Eighty - 26.09.14
Mumma: "This little piggy went to market..."
Tiny: [Dead pan.]
Mumma: ".. this little piggy stayed home..."
Mumma: "... this little piggy had roast beef..."
Tiny: [Lips pursed.]
Mumma: "... this little piggy had none..."
Tiny: [Sides of mouth curl ever-so slightly. Smile withheld.]
Mumma: "... and this little piggy went wee, wee, wee, wee, all the way home!"
Tiny: [Eyes firmly shut. Little mouth agasp. Breath held. Squeal. Giggle.]
Tiny: [Hands clap furiously.]
Two Hundred and Eight One - 27.09.14
Today, you like close. It's all cuddles and touching and stuck-together-like-glue like. And it's not a problem. You're not demanding my attention. You're just there. By my side. In actual fact, the company is quite lovely. Especially as you're usually so very occupied and independent and well, busy. But today, you're there while I brush my teeth. You're there while I fold the washing. You're there while I nurse your little sister, which again, is no issue in itself... apart from the fact that the wee little babe has a habit of latching and suckling until letdown, and then releasing, causing an uncontrollable spray of milk, reaching heights and directions I never knew possible. And you? Well, you may have found yourself caught in the crossfire. And when I say may, I mean total face splattered caught.
Big: "Oh Tiny! That was a who-mon-gus gross! You don't spit in people's faces, do you Mumma?"
Mumma: "No, darling, you're right. You don't spit in people's faces. But that actually wasn't a spit, it was..."
Big: "It's okay, Mumma. I forgive Tiny for da spit, but only if she neber eber does it again. Okay?"
And did I choose to let it slide over an explanation? You betcha.
Two Hundred and Eight Two - 28.09.14
Baby crawls. Fast. Baby climbs. High. Baby is drawn to places she should not enter. Often. Like the toilet.
Baby notices the door open. Baby enters. Baby spies an open lid. Baby climbs the toddler toilet steps leaning against the wall. Baby moves from aforementioned steps to the toilet bowl. Baby has curious fingers. Baby is intrigued by colour.
Mumma observes a quiet room. Mumma notes a missing baby. Mumma knows. She knows. Mumma follows the blissful baby sounds. Mumma gasps.
Baby smiles. Baby waves. Baby needs a bath. Stat!
Two Hundred and Eight Three - 29.09.14
Imaginative play and you go hand-in-hand. You love to dress up and go to far away places and be someone new. The objects that star in your games are endless. Ribbons become bridles for horses and bowls become crowns. Blankets become capes and pillows become trains.
Today, you found a belt. You had no idea what it was, or how it could be used, so you improvised. And boy, did it make for some luscious locks. You brushed it and twirled it and prepared it for washing. You dangled it from your castle top for the Prince to climb, and you cut it when it became
"berry wong and tangly."
My Big, every inch of you is full of life and fun and creativity. Don't ever stop telling tales of magic and dreaming of great and wonderful things. Believe it to be and it is.