Two Hundred and Forteen - 22.07.14
You remember those hands of yours that you were so pleased to have join you for your evening slumber? Well, my dear girl, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they've been confiscated until further notice. Y'see, you liked the idea of their accessibility, but in practise they were a little troublesome. They whacked and scratched and startled you. Their icy touch was not welcomed by your deliciously warm cheeks. All in all they were nothing other than a distraction to falling, and staying, sound asleep.
And that, my dear? That means game over. Until you meet again...
Two Hundred and Fifteen - 23.07.14
To sleep, or not to sleep? That is the question of the day, or week, or whatever. Thankfully, I am referring only to your daytime naps. But I'm saying only, might I add that this is the one and only time that I have an opportunity to sit and toilet and eat solo. And yes, sometimes the three are simultaneous. Especially as the timeframe for potential sleep crossover between babes in forty minutes max. So in saying that you're only skipping your midday snooze is actually quite a big deal. At least for me it is.
But you're a good egg. For the most part despite not actually looking at the inside of your eye lids, you do remain in your bedroom. And no, the door is not locked or barricaded or without a handle. You do so of your own accord. You sing and read and play... and sometimes howl to the point where your canine friends outside join in. Seriously. But really, what more can I ask for? I can still sit and toilet and eat... just with an interesting backing track.
Two Hundred and Sixteen - 24.07.14
Sound the alarm. I suppose that's not entirely accurate. You do give ample warning with your chin quiver and lip drop and face scrunch. And that's followed by a firery tinge to your sweet little face, before your mouth flips open and your arms raise in search of me... and then? You roar.
How dare that stranger look in your direction. Why on earth would someone other than Mumma or your big sister want to kiss your delectable cheeks? For goodness sakes, people. Don't they know how personal space works? Clearly not. But you're prepared to right that wrong... from the safety and security of Mumma's arms, of course. How very brave of you, my dear velcro baby.
Two Hundred and Seventeen - 25.07.14
This morning you came to me, shoulders hunched, looking a little long in the face.
Big: "I don't want to be sad, Mumma."
Mumma: "That's great, Big. I don't want you to be sad either!"
Big: "But I must be sad. I must be sad all da time!"
Mumma: "Oh dear. Why's that?"
Big: "I be sad 'cause I weally weally wike blue. It's my favourite of all da colours but da blue colour means sad. Can I be happy when lellow is not my berry best colour?"
Figures of speech. They're lost on toddlers, eh?
Two Hundred and Eighteen - 26.07.14
I know I've told you before that you love your food... but you really, really do. The walk over to your highchair is one of squirmy delight. A bib over your head is an unnecessary distraction, and an unwelcome one. In all honestly, the bib should know better than to get between you and your tucker. And your fingers? They just do not work quick enough for your liking. Whole hand and fist shovelling is more your style.
I'm painting a rather lovely image, aren't I? How delicate and feminine and cultured you are. Believe it or not, you actually are quite a clean eater. At least in the sense that there is not a great deal left to tell the story that once was. Particularly if the taste fulfils your requirements. That being the case, you also delight your edible conquest with song. Oh, how grateful you are to that which pleases you.
Two Hundred and Nineteen - 27.07.14
You have always been content with independent play. Engaged in an imaginary world with your imaginary friends, crafting a masterpiece or consumed by words on pages, you are at home. At peace. Solo. And that's perfectly okay because it's perfectly you.
In your two years and seven months on this earth, I have made a concerted effort to support you. I have been as patient and encouraging and gentle as I know how to be. But lately I've been contemplating my need to push. To test. To challenge.
I watched you today as you tried to scoop sand into a measuring cup. You tried with your let hand. You tried with your right. You tried and you failed. The sand was wet, and you lacked the necessary strength in your wrists to succeed. I bid you to try again. To persist. But you wouldn't. It broke you. I could see in your eyes that this failure had shattered your spirit. And so I took your hand, gently, and we did it together. And little by little, we'll work on your resilience together too.
Two Hundred and Twenty - 28.07.14
Waving your sweet little hands to greet those who come and go is now a party trick of old. You've moved onward and upward on the frivolity scale, keen to spread the cheer, with a cheer. Those two chubby hands of yours join together. Lightly. Softly. Repetitive. The contact is minimal, but is enough to clearly and proudly flaunt your new skill - the art of the clap. And if the action happened to be mistaken for anything gother than it's intended purpose, the accompanying vocals could not be ignored. A very distinctive and celebratory "ya-ya-ya!" as you beamed with glee. And as pleasing me pleases you, you clapped and you giggled and you clapped some more. Oh happy days, my darling. You clever clogs.