Monday, September 29, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty Nine

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..."

Tiny: [Unchanged.]

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.]

Mumma: "Again?"

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.


Sunday, September 28, 2014


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
Big: You started with brushes and three pots of paint. You ended like this.
Tiny: The joy of licking the spoon is a lesson that cannot be unlearned.

Monday, September 22, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty Eight

Two Hundred and Seventy - 16.09.14


Conversation with a toddler #8176:

Daddy: "Big, put both of your feet on the floor please. We don't stand on our sisters, okay?"

Big: "But I like to stand on Tiny. Da floor feels so hard on my feet. So hard and so stompy. But people don't feel hard, dey feel squishy and nice, so we can stand on dem, okay?"

Two Hundred and Seventy One - 17.09.14


I've been spending a fair amount of time in the kitchen of late. Baking and making and testing and tasting. You're often at my feet. Shuffling along the floor. Trying your luck at food remnants that fall to the ground. The floor is fair game, after all.

You do your wriggly worm thing, breathing at my heals, as I traipse between the pantry and the bench. You love it best when headed to the pantry... because it's a haven of all things edible. Things that you mostly can't reach, but salivate at longingly nonetheless. But then there's those you can get your mitts on. Like the onions. Which you peel. And whose skin your crunch and tear into one million pieces. And whose raw flesh enters your mouth.. Often. Because apparently I never feed you. And when and what I do clearly isn't all that appetising when a humble raw onion suffices...

Two Hundred and Seventy Two - 18.09.14


Right now, I'm loving your little toddler voice. As sweet as honey, it oozes love and life. It sings as it dances it's way through the atmosphere, busily buzzing and bouncing with joy. This morn', it's ranged from raspy whispers to the echo-y bellows you'd hear from a ringmaster, as he reaches the tip of the big top.

But have been no whines.

No whimpers.

Only light.

I'm holding on to this melody, and keeping it close enough to hit repeat should I need to. But on this day, and this Spring morn', I am grateful for what is.

Two Hundred and Seventy  Three - 19.09.14


Each week we've been going to Story Time at the library. Although, in saying that it's more songs and rhymes than stories. I must admit that our attendance was a conscious decision by me to counteract the cabin fever your big sister feels when we've been camped inside for too many days in a row. I had no doubt that you would enjoy the music and the faces and the environment too, but I truly underestimated how much. And oh my! How you do.

You delight is expressed through movement rather than vocalising, but I have no doubts that this will soon follow. You rock your sweet little body side-to-side and you clap and you wave your arms about. But my favourite part? Watching you do your thang to "Everybody Clap"... which includes a bow. For the love of all things cute. It is simply adorable.

But do you think you'll show Daddy? No siree. What do I think you are? Some kind of performing circus monkey? Ha! That's okay. We'll thank him for that stubbornness too, eh?

Two Hundred and Seventy Four - 20.09.14


Feet greater than hip width apart. Knees slightly bent. Hips thrust forward. Arms flopped loosely by your sides. Small, shuffling steps. Faster and faster.

Mumma: "Big, what on earth are you doing!?!"

Big: "I not doing anyfing, Mumma. I BEING a penguin. See!"

After my inability to interpret your artwork last week, I've learned. Smile. Nod. And reassure.

Mumma: "Why yes! Of course you are!"

Two Hundred and Seventy  Five - 21.09.14

The two of you. Sitting on the floor of the shower together. You take turns sticking the suction cup bubbles on the shower screen. You pause. Just for a moment. Your eyes meet. You smile. The cheeky we're-about-to-get-up-to-no-good kind of smile. And then together you wave your hands about against the glass, sending those bubble cups flying through the air. What follows requires me to remind my heart to be still... because it's pounding - thumping - with love.

The laughter. The wild roar. The kind the makes your head tilt back and your eyes close and leaves you out of breath. The deep belly chuckle that hurt your side body, but in a good way. The best kind of way. The laugh that starts all over again once your eyes meet again. It's uncontrollable. It's infectious. It's wholehearted. It's just as childhood should be.

Two Hundred and Seventy Six - 22.09.14


In your almost ten months earthside, you've developed quite an arm. Food. Toys. Cups. Dummies. Anything. Everything.

Throwing things is a new. Flinging things is fun. The grasp. The wind up. The release. There's really quite a skill in the process when you think about it. And such learning. Things fall down. Always. Never up. Sometimes they bounce. Sometimes they splat. Sometimes they vanish completely.

Taming the throw is a futile effort. Instead, I'm embrace it. Laughing with you... or sighing at you.


Sunday, September 21, 2014


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
Big: Surrounded by giggling girls, whose faces were adorned with rainbows and fairies and butterflies, you waited patiently for your turn.
"I'm going to be a bear, Mumma. A brown bear dat's hairy scary. But don't worry. He has a fwiendly side too."
I best keep my eye out for that friendly side, for all I see is two glaring eyes and a slight curl to your upper lip... ready to unleash a hairy scary growl!
Tiny: Sprung! One little onion thief, scurrying along. Thankfully that adorable wrist roll distracts from your saliva laden chin... you know, from the raw onion eatin'. Urgh.

You might also like: