Happy birthday sweet boy!

We got you your own scooter and tied it up with a big shiny balloon; together I saw them stamp out every ounce of babyhood that was lingering behind.

You’ve changed so much these last few months. You talk so much more, maybe slightly less than other kids your age but we don’t care about that. Your pronunciation is rubbish which I LOVE. You say ‘buuubrees’ (blueberries) ‘bapple’ (apple) ‘bthuses’ (buses) ‘beebuts’ (buttons) and ‘duddles’ (cuddles) and these versions will stay around a lot longer than they might if I didn’t keep reinforcing them, especially the duddles, always the duddles.

At two you are a fractious, defiant little ball of energy but a loving one who is a total mummy’s boy. You’re a bruiser, you wade in pushing and shoving and stand up to your brother and laugh as he throws footballer fake falls. I can tell I’m going to have to keep tabs on you.

Playing with you is a daunting experience, one minute you are laughing and the next you are shaking with anger that the train you are pushing won’t fit through a much smaller tunnel. It’s too small lovely, it’s just too small. The laws of physics are a tough lesson to learn I know.

Continue reading →

Dear lovely thing,

Firstly you are not even 18 months, more like 20 but such is the plight of the second child that I find it pretty hard to keep tabs. But it’s your fault really, you seem to do all of your growing pretty fast. Please stop that.

I sometimes feel you don’t get much of a look in on here, as compared to your brother who mouths off and argues back and provides much of the fuel for this here fire. You’re the one who bumbles around like a happy little drunk and the one that can be strapped into a pushchair and carted around. As such we don’t really have much to complain about, although there is obviously still so much to say.

These are some of the things that we love about you, right here and right now.

You bypassed every baby toy we own, chucked the stacking cups aside, glared at the shape sorter and gave the musical, brightly coloured battery thingy majigs all of 30 seconds attention. You play with cars and figures, not the baby ones but the ones your brother only recently discarded and now rather conveniently wants back.

The first song you sang? Postman frickin Pat. #FML (*remember to delete this bit when reading happens).

You can say Ka-chow just like McQueen which is the one skill you big bro admires.

You adore your cat, she hates you.

Continue reading →