Sunday 6 October 2013

Week 109- the Twits, Wentworth Prison and growing up fast...

I’ve been having a bit of a clear out as I realised that Nancy was going to the childminder’s in clothes that are over a year too small for her and she was looking a bit like one of the Twits.

It was time to face the fact that she is quite a little girl now, and can no longer squeeze into the baby gros she used to wear.

Well she can, but I think if she continues to sleep in them, they might stunt her growth.

As I sat in her room surrounded by piles of stuff, I suddenly got lost in it all.
I know this is the ultimate cliché, but I don’t know where the time has gone.

I’m looking at these titchy gros and teeny booties that an army of mum’s friends knitted for her.
And I can’t imagine that she was ever tiny enough to fit into any of them.

But at the same time, it only feels like yesterday that Ben was spoon feeding me carbs, as I rode out another wave of contraction, while intermittently watching the boxette of Prisoner Cell Block H which I’d purchased from a closing down Blockbuster, as a labour distraction.
(Disclaimer- I used to watch Prisoner Cell Block H with a group of friends when we were in our early teens so I’d bought it for one of them as a joke birthday present. Then thought I’d have a quick watch first. Then totally got into it. Then went into labour. Saying that, have you SEEN Wentworth Prison? If you thought Cell Block H was good...)

I have a daughter. With an opinion. And a clear idea of what she does and doesn’t like.
Like’s include Peppa Pig, picking her nose and wiping it on my trousers, playing/ squabbling with her best friend Ebba and cold baked beans.

Dislikes include tomatoes, sleeping in her own bed, wearing her shoes on the correct feet and warm baked beans.
At what point do our babies become ‘people’?

When do they start making decisions?
I naively assumed it was when she had a good enough vocabulary, but really, that was just the point when she could articulate what she wanted.
She’s been forming opinions about things since she could fit into those tiny baby gros.

I guess what I’m trying to say in a roundabout, tired Sunday-night kind of way, is that I need to listen to her more.
To hear her stories about which toy she’s putting to bed, and why the others have been banished to the sofa.

To sit with her and eat imaginary cake and drink  pretend tea.

To play hide and seek, where I close my eyes, count to ten and then when I open them she hasn’t moved so I have to pretend I can’t see her.

Because, for now anyway, Ben and I are her world.
She wants to tell us what’s going on in her head, because we’re  not only her parents, but also her mates.

But this isn’t going to last.
And before I know if, I’ll be sitting on her bedroom floor packing up the clothes she’s wearing now.

As she insists we go and see her friends as I’m no fun to play with anymore.


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