Monday, September 15, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty Seven

Two Hundred and Sixty Three - 09.09.14


A little while ago, when your toddler decisive indecisiveness was at an all time high, bedtime book selection was taken out of your hands. It had to be this way... because there's only so much umm-ing and ahh-ing that can occur before it gets tired. And so it was.

One story before bed. That's the rule. It's always been this way. You know it. I know it. We all know it. One Little Golden Book. Daddy selected.

But lately? There's been a little rule bending, I hear. It starts as planned. Daddy picks. Daddy reads. And then.. Daddy caves... because apparently you can't possibly sleep without hearing "The Poky Little Puppy". Every.single.night.

To be honest, I thought this had little to do with puppy in question. Rather, it was just you testing the waters with your dear ol' Dad. And I wondered how long it would be before you could push him to read you three, four, five stories. But then tonight, Daddy chose to tell the tale of that rascally pup straight of the bat. And you? One single story. Straight off to sleep. Just like that. And so it was to be "The Poky Little Puppy" for a while more.

Two Hundred and Sixty Four - 10.09.14


Legs. Just lying there. Right in front of you. Two of 'em. Just there. An open invitation to explore... to climb. Resist the urge you cannot. Up. Wobble. Balance. Down. Thud. Swivel. Again. Over and up and up and over. Mumma's. Daddy's. Big's. Anyone and everyone who inhabits the floor level with you must be climbed. Oh my word it is fun. The best, even. Ensuring that we take note, you often pause between round to applaud yourself. The cute multiplies.

And life beyond the crawl continues.

Two Hundred and Sixty Five - 11.09.14


39. Not a number I wanted to see on the thermometer. I knew it would be high, but not like that. Bundled on the couch beneath a blanket, we sat. Your head on my shoulder. Your arms around my neck.

Mumma: "How are you feeling, honey? Your tummy? Your head? Does something hurt?"

Big: "Nufkink hurts... 'cept maybe my leg 'cause of da scratch."

Oh bless you. That you can make me smile in moments like this, I am forever grateful.

Two Hundred and Sixty Six - 12.09.14


Pleasing you is easy. Cuddles. Exploring. Kisses. Songs. Boobie. You spend the best part of every day beaming. A smile so full, and so true that your nose crinkles and your eyes glisten. So long as there is you, there is love.

Displeasing you is easy. An empty plate of food. A bump to the head. Closed doors. Mumma walking away. And that smile inverts and while your nose still crinkles, your eyes narrow and darken and your cheeks puff. The result is what we've come to call the displeased pouty face. And my word, it's a doozy.

Two Hundred and Sixty Seven - 13.09.14


Conversation with a toddler #9811:

[Big, creating a masterpiece on the chalkboard]

Mumma: "What a lovely rainbow you've made!"

Big: "No, Mumma. Dat's not a rainbow. It's a camp fire! Can't you see da sticks all around?"

Mumma: "... Yes... of course I can."

Big: "Oh, Mumma. It's easy. You meed to wook a bit harder... or get a eye test, I fink."

Two Hundred and Sixty Eight - 14.09.14


Reflecting on today there's just so many things. Too many moments that capture my heart and fill my soul beyond it's limit. So here's just a few:

Two squishy arms wrapped snuggly around my neck.

Conversations in gobbledygook... which funnily enough sounds a great deal like "gobbledygook". With bonus tongue thrusts over your new toothy additions.

Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror... and responding with a wave and a "hai".

Skin-to-skin time in the shower... forever my babe. And your sneaky latching if the opportunity presents itself.

Two Hundred and Sixty Nine - 15.09.14


The lead up to this event escapes me. However the end result does not.

There was a mish-mash of limbs. Bodies climbing, crawling, sprawling. Giggles and glee from you and your sister... and then there wasn't.

Not a bump. Not a whack. Not a fall.

But tears. Baby ones.

Mumma: "What happened, Big?"

Big: "I hurt Tiny's toes."

Mumma: "Oh dear. How did that happen?"

Big: "Wif my teef. Dey did it."

Mumma: "Sorry? Your teeth did what?"

Big: "Yes. I bite dem baby toes 'cause she put dem in my mouf. I might say sowy 'cause now she's berry sad... but why do babies put toes in people's mouf? Dat's weally silly and dey might get hurt when dey do dat..."

Erm? I have no words.


Sunday, September 14, 2014


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
Big: Diggin' the diggin'. Hard.
Tiny: It's been a couple of weeks now... but I caught them. Finally. Not longer it. Them. Two of 'em toothy pegs.

Monday, September 8, 2014

{Just One Thing} Week Thirty Six

Two Hundred and Fifty Six - 02.09.14
When Nanny and Poppy went on an overseas adventure, back with them came a collection of gifts from their travels. You, of course, were delighted. Not only with the gifts, but in love with the attention. The very best part of their journey, according to you, was Spain. In Spain, there lives colour and music and guitars and dancing. And you'd know, because you now have a flamenco dress of your very own to twist and twirl and shimmy in. What's more, you have a "flaminco flapper" to use alongside it.
A what now, you say? For those of you who aren't in the know, a flaminco flapper a traditional flamenco dance accessory. The fan. Adorned with lace and beautiful artwork. Which, obviously, is flapped. And oh boy, how delicately your wrist motions as you dance your wee heart out. I adore you.
Two Hundred and Fifty Seven - 03.09.14
I thought I should tell you now that I like your fingers. A whole lot, actually. All ten of them. I tell you this as, ideally, I'd love them to stay attached to your hands. Permanently, if possible. Y'see, you've taken a liking to doors. You worm your way into rooms, and make a beeline for the things. Apparently, closing them is the best fun a little girl like you could ever have.
It's quite possible that you think it's a bit of a game. A bit of a giggle. Fun, even. Especially as motioning the door to a closed position sees this Mumma take off like a freight train in your direction. Because the door jam and the hinge and well, the whole contraption really, is not forgiving to tiny fingers. And the very thought of you jamming one of those sweet little pointers in there happens to turn my stomach. But I suppose you find that kind of hilarious too, no?
Two Hundred and Fifty Eight - 04.09.14

Conversation with a toddler #8760:
Big: "Do you know I hab magical powers?"

Mumma: "No, Big. I didn't."

Big: "Well yes I do! I can change da colour of water!"

Mumma: "Wow! That's amazing!"

Big: "Yes! It's berry magical, you know. But it only works on da toilet."

Mumma: "Oh?"

Big: "You had to close your eyes and try berry harder 'cause den if dere's a wee, da blue water can turn into green water! Just wike magic!"
Two Hundred and Fifty Nine - 05.09.14

I always thought I would breastfeed until my babe had teeth. And then teeth appeared and I kept on feeding. Then I thought I would continue until my babe was capable of asking for it. Because surely, that's a sign that they are old enough to not need it. Ha! Similarly to your big sister before you, you point and you tap and you claw at my breast, not actually needing to ask at all... because you could quite obviously just help yourself. You've been doing that for, well, too long for me to remember you not doing it. And guess what? I've kept on feeding.

That's the thing about notions of parenting pre-parenting. You just don't know until you know, you know? And even then I don't know that you really know anything at all. Instead, you just do. And you just be. And that's how I know that I'll keep on feeding you until we're done. Not me. Not you. We.
Two Hundred and Sixty - 06.09.14

 Key in ignition. Engine humming.

Big: "Please, Mumma, I meed da muuuuuusic on. Puh-lease!"

Play School. It's always Play School. Luckily we've got three or four disks that can be rotated, because, as much as I love Justine and Noni and Teo, and oh how I do, there's only so much a Mumma can listen to, you know? Although lately it's been kind of wonderful to hit the play button. Because you sing. Every.last.word. You even chime in with the ad-libs. It is equal parts adorable and mind blowing. Your memory is just astounding. But the whole arrangement divine. Your sweet melodies truly reach deep within me and make my soul sing alongside you. And that, my Big, is everything.

Two Hundred and Sixty One - 07.09.14


Father's Day, according to you, dear toddler.

A day of handmade cards and gifts and wrapping paper. Of sharing Daddy's brekkie "togeder" and using your own spoon, "because now I'm bigger." It's not eating mains but inhaling dessert without question. Of drinking hot frothy milk after stories and tickles. A day for one Poppy to receive kisses before a bop on the head, and another to give two thumbs up, which then must dance. It's fun and laughter and family. It's love. From start to finish.
Two Hundred and Sixty Two - 08.09.14


You've always been an affectionate wee thing. At least you have with me. Whole body hugs and full arm span squeezes and wide open mouth kisses. You'd smother me with your love, and you do. Often, actually.

There's almost the same level of lovin' between you and your big sister. You love to love her, but mostly on your terms. And they are quite specific terms at that. Despite hunting her down when she plays, and touching her toys just to be near her, if an affectionate motion is offered in your direction when it is unwanted, you screw up your face and push away with you hands and wriggle with all of your might to escape. But today, the escape route was unnecessary. Today was a day of full of love. Your kind of love. And it came in packaged a little differently to the norm, looking rather similar to a puppy dog kiss. With a wide open mouth and a quivering tongue at the ready, you planted it quite purposefully on your sister's cheek. Left behind was a trail of slobber... and a gleeful giggler, in you.

Thankfully, it was well received on her end too. For now.


Sunday, September 7, 2014


"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, for 2014."
Big: Tulle clad, climbing trees. Bruised legs, from shin to knees. That's what little you is made of.
Tiny: Two baby legs. Rolls where knee caps will one day be. Standing. Firmly planted. And climbing to position. Two not-so baby legs?

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