My baby’s growing up… and I’m glad

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It seems like it was only yesterday that the only words she could say were “Mama,” “Dada,” and “Peppa.” Now it’s all “I got bits!” and “Stop singing, Mummy!”

My tiny person who thinks and farts is now a significantly less tiny person, who laughs and calls them “poopytoots”. She still sleeps in a cot. She still wears nappies (“NO botty on potty, Mummy!”) and she still likes cuddles. But she can ask for them now. She can tell me that the reason she’s crying is because I’ve given her the wrong toy to sleep with. She can tell me she’s whining because she’s been awake for at least three minutes and no one has come in to say good morning, open her curtains and extricate her from her cot. She can really quite insist that the five minute drive to Co-op would not be acceptable without having her toddle bike clutched firmly across her car seat.

Gone are the guessing games. The wild-eyed gesticulation and urgent grunts. The frustrated screams… well, they’re more verbose, at least. Gone are the daily plunges into the exhausting, exasperated worry of just not knowing what the hell is wrong. Gone are the days when just a smile was just enough.

The odd 3am scream has become all the more nettling with the insertion of our names. The demands for more snacks/dropped toys/Nana/dinosaurs in the car result in all the more frustrated cries due to the inability to comprehend patience.

My child is more demanding than ever because she can demand more than ever. Grunts have become language. Requests now come with, “pliss” and “hagoo” attached. I get told “lusss ooo, Mummy,” but I also get told off – more sternly and more frequently than ever in my life – on a daily basis. God forbid I fetch her “soos” (shoes) instead of her “soosss” (juice). I’m no longer “Mama” but “silly Mummy,” “noisssy Mummy” and, thanks entirely to her father, “stinky Mummy.” She demands pieces of fruit and discards them as soon as they’re peeled. Inanimate objects are blown kisses and bade goodnight at 7.15am each morning (“night night, bath,” “night night, toilet.”) Strangers are greeted enthusiastically (“Hi! BIG man!”) My hand is shunned on walks. She hardly ever asks to be carried.

My small person surprises me everyday, and I’m not just talking about the times I happen upon her grinning up at me with  her face racooned in my eye shadow. Yes, it’s still hard. Yes, she had a cough last week and was up at all hours and yes, the clocks going back once again screwed us up royally. But it’s more worth it than ever before. The sentimental nostalgia for babyhood is there, but next to the pure joy of playing with, talking to, singing (when permitted), reading and laughing with this growing toddler… There’s just no comparison.

Lussss ooo too, Lara.

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About Jmb

Writer, journalist, mummy, redhead, wine lover, fan of epic fantasy* and Devon-girl-at-heart. Started out as a local newspaper reporter in the cowpatty-idylls of South Devon at the tender age of 21. Since then I have dabbled in radio, TV, online journalism, b2b and novel-writing. After finding self unexpectedly knocked up in January 2013, I gave birth to my blue-eyed girl the following September. Two house moves, one (very soggy) wedding, two unpublished (and several works-in-progress) novels, one triumphant return to work, two 30th birthdays and a LOT of wine later, baby number 2 is expected in the summer of 2017. *and by that I mean staring at Kit Harrington whilst the vast majority of all politically spellbinding, ethically ambiguous and incestuously gratuitous content in Game of Thrones blithely passes me by. View all posts by Jmb

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