Calamitous Mummy

Here is a small fragment of Friday morning to allow you a glimpse into the crazy world of being mummy to two, larger than life, two- and three-year-olds….

The waking up phase

As with most mornings I’m jolted awake with a knee in my groin, then an elbow in my neck, followed by a head rammed into my mouth. I pull my head to one side and gasp to breathe, my mouth full of strands of hair. A heel plunges into my tummy…

Next ensues the 10-minute ferocious battle as to who gets to lie on top of mummy and hug her. Lying next to me doesn’t count. Until I eventually summon the strength to heave my weary body into a seated position, and – before the bed-jumping phase gets underway (when someone invariably falls off backwards and screams or jumps hard onto ‘mummy’ and I scream – or yelp) – I herd my little darlings downstairs for breakfast (will spare you the ins and outs of breakfast…)

I glance at my phone and an important PR client has confirmed a 15 min call at 9.15am (rescheduled from the previous days because the girls have been off nursery sick). At 9.14am both girls are in position in front of ‘Ben and Holly’, which, including adverts lasts about 15 mins. Call client, but no reply. Email secretary and the guy calls me back instantly: “I’m very busy at the moment, give me 2 minutes please,” and promptly hangs up. I use the Ben and Holly time to take a 2-minute shower, with my phone on the sink, hoping I’m not going to have to respond dripping wet. I quickly get dressed and check the time. I eventually switch to Paw Patrol at 9.29am and seamlessly the client calls me as I’m sprinting upstairs away from sound of the opening theme tune. One of the day’s few successes.

Losing it in the library 

Rhyme Time at the library is a failure, because we begin singing a song with the word ‘baby’ in it, which reminds MiniM#2 that I’d (purposefully) left her (larger than life) baby doll in the car. She wails ‘Baby! Baby!’ in steady crescendo until the strains of Baa Baa Black Sheep can no longer drown her out… I resort to abandoning MiniM#1 (who is luckily sitting next to a friend – also with her own two little ones) while I exit the room with her sister, trying (unsuccessfully) to calm her down as she bawls her lungs out in the library.

After Rhyme Time we borrow some books – another failure. We are meant to be returning books (so that we only have nine books and fewer to lose around the house). But MiniM#1 starts begging me to take a new one out. One quickly becomes three, and then MiniM#2 begins grabbing handfuls of books, half of which we already have at home, and tearing around the library, with me in close pursuit carrying a nappy bag, three winter coats over my arm, and MiniM#1’s library books which keep slipping out of my hands.

After successfully reducing the books to three books each, which each girl insists on clutching (to my initial delight) we step out onto the drizzly pavement to go to the shoe shop. Initial delight evaporates as books begin to slip out of the girls’ hands, landing in puddles. Cue consternation from all three of us.

Next the dismayed realisation that MinM#1 had left her beloved Winnie the Pooh in the library. Since we are already halfway to Clarks we decide to stop off on the way back to hunt him down. The Clarks experience, however, marks a whole new level of calamity.

Clarks-gate 

It transpires that MiniM#2 has not changed shoe size and is still a toddler size 7.  MiniM#1, meanwhile, who has also been a toddler size 7 for the past 12 months, has progressed to a size 8. I beam at her, joyfully telling her she’s finally entitled to a pair of new shoes. I’m not prepared for her response.

“I don’t want new shoes!” she wails.

“What do you mean? Look at all these pretty shoes….”

“No! I don’t want any new shoes!”.

I glance up nervously at the sales assistant, and MiniM#2 begins shouting “New shoes! New shoes! I want new shoes!”

It would have been tempting to quit while we were ahead, but I couldn’t leave my 3-year-old with shoes that were too small for her.

“Why don’t I bring a selection out for you, so you can see what we have?” ventures the sales assistant.

MiniM#2, by now bored and fed up at the prospect of no shoes, begins pulling the display footwear down from the shelves one by one.

I manage to coax her into ‘tidying up’ until the sales assistant returns and her attention turns to the new shoe selection being offered to an unimpressed MiniM#1. “No, don’t like them” she says flatly to every shoe offered, which MiniM#2 then pulls out of the box and run around the shop with them.

Finally, the last box is opened to reveal the exact same shoes MiniM#1 has already, but in pink (her favourite colour…) and she is instantly sold. They are massively discounted too since they’d been sitting in the shop for over a year.

This is all too much for poor MiniM#2 who, fed up with not having any shoes, when I make a move towards the till to pay, decides to make a break for it, sprinting across the shop towards the open doors onto the busy street.

I fling down my purse, bag and coat, abandon MiniM#1 for the second time that morning and shoot off after her pickle of a sister.

I catch her on the pavement in the drizzle, with a cardboard shoe advert in her hand.

What really stumps me is the pure delight and laughter in her face when I tell her off. When I shout ‘NO!’, everyone in the shop looks terrified, bar MiniM#2 who chortles with glee.

Mortified I pull her back in the shop, unhook the shop doors and wedge them shut. I need to pay and there is no other way I can keep MiniM#2 contained. A fellow shopper kindly volunteers to keep an eye that my tearaway daughter doesn’t push the doors back open again.

At the till, I apologise profusely for putting Clarks into lockdown mode and preventing new customers from entering, and the sales assistant smiles graciously and calls my daughter a little toe rag (!)

Prising another cardboard advert and shoe out of her grips I restore them to their rightful places in the shop, and MiniM#1 sagely helps me to hook the shop doors back open again (“back a bit mummy, no, forward a bit..”) while I hold my wriggling ‘toe rag’ with a firm grip.

Next stop the library to try to find Winnie the Pooh (which we eventually do after employing an army of librarians to the cause..)

Epilogue

Later that night when I turn off my bedside light – exhausted – I start to tell DH of my strenuous day (the afternoon was equally eventful …) and he is unusually quiet. Ah how lovely, he’s really listening to me, I inwardly muse. I finish talking, yet there is still complete silence…

I’m incensed that he dared to doze off (!) but a full week with both girls off nursery has clearly taken its toll on both of us.

Despite my moany post, needless to say my heart explodes with love every time I see my girls. Take me away from them for more than a few hours and I’m yearning to be running after them again or having their tiny arms tugging at my neck, even if it feels like they’re strangling me at times…

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page

Life can pass from serenity to chaos and back to serenity again in a 15-minute window when you have young kids.

I totally lost my rag tonight and used a word I never wanted to use in front of the girls. DH was meant to be doing bath time while I was cooking a lovely quiche for mine and his dinner. I heard loud shouts emanating from the bathroom so I thought I should venture upstairs to help out.

I found DH unsuccessfully trying to rinse MiniM#1’s hair while she shouted “TOO COLD! TOO HOT!!” and for mummy to “GET ME OUT OF THE BATH NOW!!!”. Meanwhile MiniM#2 was crying because she was rubbing soap suds into her eyes. Still feeling drained from the vomiting virus less than 48 hours ago, I grabbed the shower head from DH’s hands to rinse the soap from her eyes. MiniM#2 screamed and resisted while MiniM#1 screamed for “MUMMY” to “GET ME OUT OF THE BATH NOW!!” She still had shampoo in her hair.

I pulled the shower head to try to rinse her head but her little sister was sitting on the hose. I tried asking DH to move her (since he was blocking my access to her) but he was busy raising his voice above the general din (“MUMMY GET ME OUT OF THE BATH NOW!!”) to ask me which conditioner he should use for MiniM#2’s hair because the tea tree oil one had run out (!).  My voice became buried in the noise and everyone provided resistance to what I was trying to do or say. Too many voices, too many people in the bathroom…

I finally managed to tell DH in no uncertain terms to use whichever frigging conditioner he wanted and I rinsed out MiniM#2’s shampoo. I told her to climb out of the bath onto my lap as I’ve strained my back and lacked the strength to lift her I felt so weak from having been so sick. “I WANT YOU TO CARRY ME!!” She kept screaming until finally, I hauled her out of the water, my back aching, my tired body groaning under the weight.

“PICK UP MY ANIMALS!” She shouted. I couldn’t stoop down carrying her at the same time so had to ask DH several times if he could do so. He picked up the wrong toys. So, it was then that I shouted out a loud expletive and he got the correct toys as I felt my back about to break. I whisked my whining child away still shouting (me this time!) and she dropped her toys on the floor wailing at me to pick them up again. I shouted some more and then dropped her onto her bed, flouncing off downstairs to check on the quiche.

The wails from the bedroom subsided and all was eerily quiet in the bathroom. I popped up briefly to dry MiniM#1’s hair, complain to her about her behaviour and reiterate my exhausted state. “I’m calming down now mummy, I’m calming down,” she sobbed helplessly so I hugged her until DH came in to continue drying both the girls’ hair and I returned to the kitchen.

Suddenly all three family members appeared before me; MiniM#1 apologising for shouting and behaving badly and DH issuing a rare and precious apology for shouting too. Poor MiniM#2 had nothing to apologise for – she must have been as distressed by everything as I was, and I cursed myself for losing my rag like that. All three of them gave me a hug and a kiss and I melted inside.

I feel exhausted tonight and too tired to write a meaningful conclusion. Maybe there isn’t one. Or just that life with small kids is challenging and when you care it’s hard not to lose your rag. And that mums shouldn’t beat themselves up about it when they do. It’s normal and part and parcel of being human.  And your kids know they love them to the moon and stars and back. I told MiniM#2 again as I kissed her goodnight “I’m sorry I shouted darling…” and she said “No I’m sorry mummy. I’m sorry I shouted.”

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page

Yesterday I was unexpectedly joined by Darling Husband (DH) for my regular Friday morning jaunt to rhyme time at the local library with 20-month-old MiniM#2, followed by lunch at a nearby coffee shop. He had just stepped off the plane after a 12-hour flight from Cape Town, having spent the past 5 nights away with work.

I was pleasantly surprised he had so gamely volunteered to come along too. In contrast to having spent the past week coping alone looking after two of them, two of us now looking after just one small person would surely be a breeze. Or so I thought…

Rhyme Time passed pretty uneventfully. It was lovely watching my little girl smiling in delight at having her daddy miraculously returned to her.  It was during the next phase – going to a local coffee shop for lunch – that events took a turn for the worse.

Friday mornings are usually my ‘selfish time’ with MiniM#2; a rare one-on-one time I have with her. After Rhyme Time I often make the most of being in town to buy random items such as a present for a kid’s birthday party, stamps or a new toothbrush, or I might simply wander around the shops browsing clothes. MiniM#2 is still thankfully of an age she can be happily self-contained in a buggy.

Yesterday on the way to the coffee shop I saw there was a half-price sale on in one of my favourite clothing stores, but I could see Darling Husband’s heart understandably sink at the prospect of us popping in after his 12-hour flight.

So we made a beeline for the coffee shop instead. I queued while DH found a seat near the window and successfully installed MiniM#2 in a highchair (easier than it sounds), sandwiched between his seat and mine. Contrary to expectations, the whole experience turned out to be way less relaxing than when I’m on my own with her.

We had a smallish table and I immediately felt uneasy about the proximity of DH’s scalding hot coffee to the edge of the table. Every time our toddler would wave her arms around energetically I would yelp ‘YOUR COFFEE!’ in a strained vice as her hand came a whisker away from sending the cup and its contents flying. The cup would get moved in the nick of time, only to be picked up again a few seconds later and returned to its original place.

Meanwhile her food was another matter altogether. Normally when we go out together we’re with both girls, and one of us will assist feeding one daughter, while the other will help her sister. In this case MiniM#2 was sitting equidistant to both of us. So, we’d start by both trying to feed her at the same time, and then we’d both abruptly stop when we saw each other’s efforts.

We were eating paninis (which thankfully she didn’t take too much of an interest in), but I had brought along a baby pouch (for simplicity’s sake) and some homecooked pasta for our toddler. In the end I decided it was simpler to just let DH feed her, but her arm-waving continued aplenty as did my nervous interjections: ‘YOUR COFFEE!’ ‘YOUR PLATE!’ ‘THE PASTA!’.

When I’m on my own I make sure all breakable/ spillable/ hot items are out of reach, but it was tough with double the amount of such items this time and sitting at such a small table.

Pretty soon the inevitable happened. Thank God it wasn’t the coffee, but the pasta that was sent flying up into the air and scattered over the coffee shop floor. As misfortunate would have it she’d only eaten about two pieces of pasta.  And she was understandably distressed at the fact her favourite pasta was strewn on the ground.

Now we had a dilemma I knew we had to assess very quickly given she was crying noisily – and in danger of waking the baby girl who had just gone off for a nap in a buggy by the table next to us. In my mind there were just two options – either 1) throw the pasta in the bin, or 2) adhere to the famous ‘10 second rule’ and quickly scoop the pasta back into the bowl and continue like nothing had happened.

On my own I would have probably opted for the former. She’d eaten her Bolognese baby pouch so wouldn’t go hungry and you never know what germs may be on the floor. But I hesitated as I was not her only parent today, and I was terrified about her screams waking up the other baby, whose mother I had shared an empathetic smile with when her baby dozed off. She was clearly grateful for a bit of a break and the chance to enjoy her cookie and coffee in peace.

DH picked up on my dilemma and, true to his natural troubleshooting self, he offered a third option. “I could pick the pasta up and clean it with water,” he offered. Aware I didn’t have time on my side, this actually seemed like quite a sensible option. He had only just been commenting how great it was the coffee shop had a big vat of chilled water freely available to customers to help themselves to.

He scooped up the pasta and then was gone a. very. long. time. indeed. During which time MiniM#2 was distraught at not only her pasta disappearing, but also her daddy who had only just come back after 6 days in Africa. This was all too much for her. “Dadaaaaaaa!’ “DADAAAAAAAAAA!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs. I was left equally distraught. Where on earth had he gone and why on earth did I agree to this? She was clearly far more bothered about no daddy than no pasta.

The baby next to us awoke and joined in the crying. I felt so bad for her mother who had taken all but two bites of her chocolate cookie. The screaming continued and I was utterly powerless to resolve it. “He’s coming back,” I kept telling MiniM#2, totally nonplussed as to where he had gone and too embarrassed to look at the woman on the table next to us. We had water on our table that he could have rinsed the pasta with.

Finally he re-emerged, triumphantly handing our toddler the flaccid pasta. “Where WERE you?” I hissed, mortified. “I went to the toilets to wash it,” he replied, baffled as to what the fuss was about.

“The men’s toilets?”  This was a scenario I had yet to imagine and was struggling to digest, assuming he had gone to ask in the kitchen or something. “The men’s toilets?!’

“Yes,” he began to look irritated. “It’s drinking water you know, they always have drinking water in the toilets.”

“No they don’t,” I replied. “There are often signs saying ‘no drinking water’”.

“There was no sign, so it’s fine.”

Meanwhile, thrilled at being reunited with not only her daddy, but also her pasta, MiniM#2 began tucking in merrily.

I began to wonder, am I overreacting?  But something still profoundly bothers me about the whole episode; he must have placed his hand on the door to the gents to open it… and then how clean were the sinks and the taps? I didn’t dare ask details on how he actually washed the wretched pasta. It’s probably better I’m spared this information, given I wasn’t going to be the one to tussle away the beloved pasta my little girl was so excited to see again.

The moral of the story? Maybe wiser to keep Friday morning for one-on-one mummy-daughter time and suggest DH rests after such a long flight…

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page 

 

 

 

 

In contrast to the intense haze of the early days, life with a 3-year-old and a not-far-off 2-year-old has become surprisingly manageable. Life has more of a pattern to it now. And both girls are in nursery care at least 2.5 days a week, meaning I have more time and energy to devote to running my own business.

The potty training I had been dreading and putting off – expecting to have plenty of stomach-churningly funny anecdotes to include in a blog post – passed by astonishingly without incident. I was *almost* disappointed.  The beauty of leaving it until she was 3 years old meant she went straight from nappy to toilet seat. I haven’t had to wipe out the contents of a potty (actually more gross than dealing with a soiled nappy if you think about it…)

Life is more manageable now, but obviously not without its quirks.

In a new twist to our routine, after Wednesday morning church playgroup I now drop MiniM#2 off at granny’s house for a nap, before taking MiniM#1 on to a certain coffee shop for lunch together. Now she’s older, and out of nappies, I’m thrilled at the notion of a one-on-one mother-daughter lunch.

The reality, however, turns out to be somewhat removed from the notion.

The first time we went, she refused to eat anything, because her toasted sandwich had traces of tomato in it. The entire lunchtime was spent with me cajoling her to eat and her saying ‘no.’  A total flop and waste of money.

Yesterday however was a slightly improved, if not toe-curling experience. Luckily ham and cheese toasties were in stock, which she normally likes.

But, as she cast her discerning eye over the shelf, she instead declared she wanted a brightly coloured kids’ smoothie. I flatly told her ‘no, you need to choose a sandwich.’ Her wail became louder and more insistent, and wary of causing a ‘scene’ I eventually found myself saying ‘if you eat your sandwich then let’s see.’

We found a nice sunny spot by the window and the lunch started off beautifully. She was in a grown-up chair, drinking water out of a glass, eating her toastie nicely and we chatted pleasantly. I was marvelling about how grown-up she was. But I was brought rapidly back to earth again:

“Mummy, what’s that lady’s name?”

“Which lady?”

“That lady over there!” she insisted, jabbing her finger in the direction of a woman in a grey jumper in her early thirties.

“Erm..” I began, conscious she wasn’t going to let this go. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“No mummy, I’m shy, you ask her…”

Determined to maintain the dynamics of this merry mother-daughter lunch, I found myself making eye-contact with the woman, who seemed to be aware we were talking about her.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking you this.. ahem.. but my daughter wanted to know your name,” I ventured, slightly surprising myself at the lengths I was going to.

MiniM#1 looked mortified and turned to face in the opposite direction.

The woman smiled “Sure, it’s X,” she began.  She then proceeded to tell me her life story.

I froze as it dawned on me – maybe she thinks I was chatting her up.

I smiled awkwardly and she went to sit at a nearby table, glancing up at me every few minutes.

I focused on MiniM#1 who was now staring at a man reading the paper while he drank his coffee.

“Mummy? What’s that man’s name?”

“No darling,” I said flatly. “I’m not asking everyone their names.  It’s ok if a child does it, but not if a grown-up does,” I explained, already imagining her confusion at my logic. “Have you finished your toastie? Shall we go now?”

“Mummy I want THAT,” she answered, pointing at the brand name smoothie from earlier. It was overpriced and young children aren’t really supposed to have drinks with high sugar content, especially not through a straw. It ruins their teeth.

“Darling I told you no.”

“But mummy,” the voice took on a more reasonable tone. “When we were standing over there you said if I ate my toastie then I could.”

Damnit. She was more or less right. Not wanting to quibble, or spoil the nice interaction we’d had, I went over and bought the pricey fruit drink. It was a one-off after all.

I punctured the carton with a straw and passed it to her.  She took a feeble sip and scrunched up her nose. “Mummy I don’t like it.”

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page

I’ve been so plagued by this f#cking rooster that I’ve found myself fantasising about ways of getting rid of it.  I can actually watch it, strutting around its coop, as I peer out of my bedroom window in the mornings, silently simmering with rooster-related rage.

We even spent last week at my mother’s house on the other side of the village to catch-up on some much-needed sleep. It was a wonderful feeling to start to feel more human and happy again. And to function normally. But I couldn’t help but feel angry at the audacity of this stupid bird (or rather its stupid owner) who had quite literally driven us out of our own home.

The good news is it that so far this week it has stopped waking the whole family up at 4am. Apparently the full moon was to blame for its night-time squawking. It has gone back to waking us at sunrise: ie 7.30am. However, I’m painfully cognisant that as the winter nights shorten and summer draws nearer its agonisingly trumpeting cry will start penetrating our walls, and waking up our little ones, earlier and earlier.

Right now, anything rooster-related, drives me slightly insane. Ie the giant rooster puzzle 3 year old MiniM#1 was delighting in at the weekend at her granny’s house. Or the episode of Peppa Pig that DaddyM innocently put on for the girls last night, where Granny Pig’s rooster crows hideously and Peppa Pig and George go tearing down the garden in glee and chortle effusively to the rooster: “Thank you for waking us up Neville!”

I know shouldn’t even be toying with the idea of moving the girls to sleep in different rooms, or moving out of our house… the rooster should be the one moving out!  I need to function, work and above all look after my lovely girls and cannot do any of the above very well with severe sleep deprivation.

I discovered an interesting link on the Bromley Borough Council’s website, which I helpfully forwarded to our neighbour, hoping in vain she’ll opt for the final bullet point: www.bromley.gov.uk/info/412/pollution_control_-_noise/612/noise_-_cockerels_crowing/2

We are giving our neighbour one last chance to respond to our calls, emails and visits next door. If she ignores us again tonight, we’ll be going to the council to lodge an official complaint.

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page 

A slightly despairing, less polite email to my next-door neighbour last week. She still hasn’t replied. Coq-au-vin anyone?!

Dear X,

Thanks for your kind reply – and yes I’m afraid it’s having some quite serious knock-on effects with us.

Our 18-month-old spent the whole morning at nursery asleep because she was being awoken by the cockerel through the night. I usually work when she naps in the afternoon, but she’s no longer napping owing to being asleep in the morning.

Without going into all the ins and outs, both our family life and professional lives are being adversely affected by a profound lack of sleep.

From what I’ve read (there are many forums on the internet) the pen needs special sound-proofing done to stop the sound travelling.  Or some people have given away the rooster to a neighbouring farm and contented themselves with chickens.

I gather the council can crack down quite hard on cases like this, but obviously we wanted to go to you direct and not involve the council. And in F’s case she was able to keep her roosters – after soundproofing their coop – and no one hears them anymore.

So if you could do something … anything…. to remove the noise we would be so indebted and grateful to you!

Sleep deprivation is a bit of a killer, especially with very young children to look after…

F said she’d tried to call you a few times without success so I’m copying her in so maybe you can arrange a time to speak.

We’re feeling increasingly desperate about the whole situation! My husband thought maybe he could come and talk to you after work tonight, but I figured a chat with F first might help?

Hope you understand and sorry to be so direct…

 

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page 

Polite email to my next-door neighbour. What I wanted to write was ‘Please get rid of the [insert expletive] Rooster!’

Dear X,

Thank you so much for letting us come around last weekend to meet your hens and sample some of your scrumptious eggs. The girls were captivated by the whole experience and had their first taster of the eggs tonight for supper. They taste sublime.

One thing I feel a bit awkward about asking you about, but I’m going to ‘bite the bullet’ so as to speak, is the rooster.. he’s a bit loud sometimes in the night! He was very noisy last Sunday for example and woke us all up just before 6am.  I’d thought about saying something, but then he hadn’t been too noisy after that…. until this morning when he started crowing loudly at 4.05am and woke us up again! Once awake, the girls struggle to go back to sleep, and as a result, so do we.  What puzzles me is why he’s crowing so early – I thought it was at sunrise they were meant to crow?

I hesitated to mention anything, because I assumed nothing could be done, bar the obvious, BUT then I spoke to a lady who lives about 7 doors down the road from us. When we first moved here the noise from her roosters woke us up every morning, but then one morning it all went very quiet. So, I plucked up the courage to talk to her about it and it turns out she still has 18 roosters (!) and a neighbour apparently reported the noise to the council, who visited her home to solve the issue. She says there is a way of sound-proofing their coop so they don’t disturb anyone…. and when I told her about our situation she said she’d be happy to chat to you to explore what can be done.

Obviously your chickens are lovely and I know it’s been your childhood dream to have them so I would be reluctant to mention it if I didn’t think there was any other option, but when I heard it’s relatively simple to soundproof them I felt encouraged to broach this with you!

Would you be interested in me putting you in touch with her…? I really struggle when I’ve not slept and then have to look after the girls the next morning or work.

Let’s hope there’s an easy solution so we’re all happy! Don’t mind contributing to the cost of any soundproofing if it comes to it…

Thanks for your understanding

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page 

On the eve of her third birthday, I’ve decided make a list of just some of the many things I adore about MiniM#1

• She talks in whispers to her soft toys and reads them stories when she’s supposed to be having her afternoon nap. Recently, before going to off to sleep, she covered each fluffy toy with a  flannel, and herself with a matching towel
• When she plays hide-and-seek, she first shows me where she’s going to hide
• She gasps emphatically ‘oh mummy what a pretty dress/ top/ scarf (*delete as applicable) is it new?’ each time I wear something she’s not seen before (Take note Daddy M 😉  )
• She has asked me every morning since my operation how my knee is and whether I’m feeling any better (DaddyM… 😉 )
• She notices the smallest detail of things going on around her and comments back on it months later (Okay I’ll give you a break now DaddyM…)
• She asks really intelligent, technical questions that take my breath away and if her 16 month old sister is trying to do/ say/ express something she often notices before anyone else and relays with astonishing insight and accuracy what it is she’s trying to do/ say/ express (ie whether her sister is crying because her teeth hurt or whether it’s because she has a touch of constipation…)
• She has a wicked sense of humour, in a funny situation she sometimes just has to look at me and we both crease up laughing
• She is a skilled mimic, who imitates her little sister so well I think it’s her sister making the noise (and when she was a baby she would mimic the sound of a squeaky swing or a digger..)
• She finishes my sentences – accurately – when I trail off, unsure of what I started to say
• She sometimes says, completely randomly ‘oh mummy you’re so cute’!
• After we tucked her up in bed and kissed her goodnight one night she told us “Can you two just go now please?”
• She’s beautiful and a miracle and I can’t believe I cooked her all by myself