My girl turns two in two days (and I turn 32, but I'm less fussed about that).
It's funny, it's not a case of "I can't believe she's turning 2". It's more "What? She not even 2 yet?"
Peggy was never really a baby, you see, and has never been content to act her age. She was throwing her little body down slippery dips before she could walk, ditching purees for regular food well before we expected, walking way too soon, speaking in sentences shortly after her first birthday, doing everything very much ahead of schedule. I used to fear I'd come across as bragging, but these days I accept it as fact - she's a clever little creature, cleverer than I ever was, and shows more awareness and understanding of her world than is demonstrated by some adults. What she did inherit from me is a dogged determination, explosive temeperament, and a capacity for love. She's also very practical and good at solving problems, which I think she gets from her Dad. No idea where she got her comic qualities from though... I do think she has a touch of her aunty Lani about her. She literally has Phil, Otis and I in stitches all day long.
She walks into a room and immediately all eyes are on her. It's not that she's an exceptionally stunning beauty or anything - she's very cute, but I think what it's really about is the whole package. The big almost-black eyes, the untamed Goldilocks hair, the assured walk, the grown up phrasing, the sweetest huskiest little voice you've ever heard, the constantly emotive facial expressions, the boundless energy, the golden skin. She's a bit of a star, I suppose. I guess you could describe it as charisma. She'll often latch on to a random person once she arrives somewhere - she'll make her selection and then almost seduce them with that little voice and a warm snuggle. No one can resist.
I am proud of how well-rounded she's becoming. Her brother's influence means that she loves Star Wars - cuddled her mini R2D2 figurine all night last night - and prefers to wear her Bob the Builder top to daycare over any other. She does love princesses though, and longs to do ballet like her cousin Isla. She's begun to really love reading, and will sit with her Maisy books for quite a while now, 'reading' lovingly to her doll Lulu, randomly pausing to tell Lulu off for not listening, making a mess or just generally being naughty. She really enjoys a good session on the swings, and if we ever discuss the park she'll start showing me her swinging action, throwing her little body forwards and backwards. She loves to build Duplo towers, sing nursery rhymes so as to comfort any sad-looking characters she comes across in books, 'write her name', shop - with her little trolley, a mountain of plastic food, as many dolls as she can cart around and the same number of bags - and to build cubby houses with her brother. Weetbix is her favourite breakfast food, blueberries are her preferred fruit, and she makes random requests for chocolate cake at least once a day.
She already adores her younger sibling. She pats my tummy gently, tickles it, and then asks to look at my boobs, and reminds me that they are for the baby. Once my boobs are out - at her request - she laughs, describes them as cupcakes, and then launches into 'Happy Birthday'.
She loves a cuddle, puts her arms up and shouts "UP TO ME!!", and reverts to baby mode for a few moments. I feel like she missed so much of her babyhood, and I love it when she puts on a baby voice and says "Mama, Mama", over and over.
She wasn't my first baby, won't be my last, but she's my Peggy. She's the only Peggy there is and I am so glad she's mine.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Otis and his pirate bag...
I think I’ve blogged about the fact that these days I can sort of/kind of/ in a very novice sense, SEW. With a sewing machine. I’ve always wanted to be able to, and over a year ago now, I bought a machine and enrolled in a class. I couldn’t continue with the classes because, at the time, Peggy was still being breastfed and the timing was bad and it created mountains stress for everyone in our house. But the three or so lessons that I did manage to attend provided me with the ability to turn on the machine and sew a straight line. It’s amazing what you can create once you master these key steps!
I make skirts for Peggy and all the other little girls that I know. I can do shorts, but not as beautifully. So, feeling guilty about producing item after item for my Booroo and nothing much for my boy, I made him a very basic little bag with a long strap that allows him to wear it across his body. It’s made of a grey and black flannelette pirate fabric, and a long piece of red and white striped ribbon. Really easy, a monkey could do it. No skill required. And wouldn’t you know, it’s his very favourite thing. The fabric is going all pill-y and worn, it’s dirty and smelly because he’s only ever let it out of his sight long enough for a spin in the washing machine on one occasion.
He fills it with an assortment of odds and ends. He just keeps on adding to it, and, like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, it has an amazing and deceptive capacity, given how small it is (about 20 x 20cm, at a guess). At the moment it holds:
A scrap of paper bearing my signature, which he specifically asked for
A tiny, stuffed Han Solo doll
An issue taken from his large collection of K-Zone, D-Mag and Mania magazines
A plastic cob of corn
My old mobile phone
A plastic screwdriver
A Duplo canoe
Pieces of bark
A small rock
A tape measure
Only a select few are allowed to view the contents of the bag. I think it’s only myself, Phil and Mum, really. Peggy’s banned most of the time, but if she’s really cranky whilst we’re driving along he’s quite good about pulling something out of it to entertain her.
Of course now, being the copycat she is, Peggy's got her own bag and is filling it with her own random assortment. But the boy definitely started the trend. And being nearly 4, his collection carries more significance, even if that significance is sometimes a mystery to the rest of us. It definitely means something in his mind.
I make skirts for Peggy and all the other little girls that I know. I can do shorts, but not as beautifully. So, feeling guilty about producing item after item for my Booroo and nothing much for my boy, I made him a very basic little bag with a long strap that allows him to wear it across his body. It’s made of a grey and black flannelette pirate fabric, and a long piece of red and white striped ribbon. Really easy, a monkey could do it. No skill required. And wouldn’t you know, it’s his very favourite thing. The fabric is going all pill-y and worn, it’s dirty and smelly because he’s only ever let it out of his sight long enough for a spin in the washing machine on one occasion.
He fills it with an assortment of odds and ends. He just keeps on adding to it, and, like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, it has an amazing and deceptive capacity, given how small it is (about 20 x 20cm, at a guess). At the moment it holds:
A scrap of paper bearing my signature, which he specifically asked for
A tiny, stuffed Han Solo doll
An issue taken from his large collection of K-Zone, D-Mag and Mania magazines
A plastic cob of corn
My old mobile phone
A plastic screwdriver
A Duplo canoe
Pieces of bark
A small rock
A tape measure
Only a select few are allowed to view the contents of the bag. I think it’s only myself, Phil and Mum, really. Peggy’s banned most of the time, but if she’s really cranky whilst we’re driving along he’s quite good about pulling something out of it to entertain her.
Of course now, being the copycat she is, Peggy's got her own bag and is filling it with her own random assortment. But the boy definitely started the trend. And being nearly 4, his collection carries more significance, even if that significance is sometimes a mystery to the rest of us. It definitely means something in his mind.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
How number three came to be...
Well, I won't go into too much detail, never fear! As you may know, Phil and deliberated long and hard over how many children we felt would work for us. I had, and I guess continue to have, a bit of a fantasy of having four little ones. In my imagination I am able to embrace the chaos and the space on my lap magically multiplies. If I am honest with myself, I know that I am not cut out for mothering that many. I get too angry too easily, I do tend to despair over situations that other mothers are able to laugh about. And Phil, well, he can't quite work out how you hold on to three kids with only two hands, let alone four. So... three it is, for now. A vasectomy is on Phil's horizon.
We decided to start trying in May, which would mean that the earliest the baby could come would be February - right after my maternity leave entitlements kick in. Phil was hoping for quite a few months of actively "trying", me, well, I wanted it to happen quickly of course. And I suppose I had a feeling only a few days in that it had already happened, as I began a very relentless course of daily, sometimes twice daily, pregnancy testing. It was as if I believed that if I just kept testing, eventually that fat, glaringly blank, white space would turn into a pretty, promising, POSITIVE pink line. And it did.
My period was late-ish at that point, and I felt that heavy, leaden, unwavering tiredness that you can only know if you've been pregnant. Something was definitely wrong... Or should I say, right. I hated our old bathroom, found the bleach-resistant mould and cracked tiles repellant, but I'll never forget finally seeing a second pink line and feeling my stomach flip, standing right there amongst the debris of the kids' bathtime fun. I was pregnant, again, and probably for the last time. I was so happy, and yet already so sad that I'd never feel that same, indescribable, precious burst of joy again. I wanted to cup that feeling in my hands and never let it go.
My cycles had been strange, short, erratic, unpredictable. But an early scan predicted an EDD of 22 February 2012. Lovely. I've always liked the month of February. Another summer baby.
I've suffered again this pregnancy. Plenty of nausea, lethargy, hunger. Afew bouts of vomiting. Already my pelvis/pubis feels about to crack. My back's felt weak and worn. I have hairs sprouting in inconvenient places. But the joy in the kids' faces when they kiss my tummy and laugh at my nub-like belly button makes me feel all warm inside. And last week I saw my 19 week old foetus flipping around in my womb. I saw a perfect little profile, an Otis-like snub nose, thick, kissable lips. A little hand curling around the cord that joins us. And I feel so much love for this new baby, and so, so, so grateful to be growing another seemingly healthy little being.
We decided to start trying in May, which would mean that the earliest the baby could come would be February - right after my maternity leave entitlements kick in. Phil was hoping for quite a few months of actively "trying", me, well, I wanted it to happen quickly of course. And I suppose I had a feeling only a few days in that it had already happened, as I began a very relentless course of daily, sometimes twice daily, pregnancy testing. It was as if I believed that if I just kept testing, eventually that fat, glaringly blank, white space would turn into a pretty, promising, POSITIVE pink line. And it did.
My period was late-ish at that point, and I felt that heavy, leaden, unwavering tiredness that you can only know if you've been pregnant. Something was definitely wrong... Or should I say, right. I hated our old bathroom, found the bleach-resistant mould and cracked tiles repellant, but I'll never forget finally seeing a second pink line and feeling my stomach flip, standing right there amongst the debris of the kids' bathtime fun. I was pregnant, again, and probably for the last time. I was so happy, and yet already so sad that I'd never feel that same, indescribable, precious burst of joy again. I wanted to cup that feeling in my hands and never let it go.
My cycles had been strange, short, erratic, unpredictable. But an early scan predicted an EDD of 22 February 2012. Lovely. I've always liked the month of February. Another summer baby.
I've suffered again this pregnancy. Plenty of nausea, lethargy, hunger. Afew bouts of vomiting. Already my pelvis/pubis feels about to crack. My back's felt weak and worn. I have hairs sprouting in inconvenient places. But the joy in the kids' faces when they kiss my tummy and laugh at my nub-like belly button makes me feel all warm inside. And last week I saw my 19 week old foetus flipping around in my womb. I saw a perfect little profile, an Otis-like snub nose, thick, kissable lips. A little hand curling around the cord that joins us. And I feel so much love for this new baby, and so, so, so grateful to be growing another seemingly healthy little being.
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