Young Love

Oh God. It's begun. Already. And what timing, on the weekend of Valentine's Day.

On the way home from nursery in the car tonight Gertie gave me a quick sideways glance and struck up a conversation.
"Mummy, I want to tell you some-sing." (Her adult tone was offset by the funny lisp she has on 'th' words.)
"What's that?"
"Do you know Harrison?"
"Er, yes, I think so," I answered, rapidly trying to work out which one of the corduroy-clad toddlers she meant.
"Harrison is my boyfriend."
"Oh...?"
"I love him," she sighed, simply.

She's two!

I'm Too Civilised!

Gertie's transfer from 'toddlers' to 'pre-school' at nursery has been a little fraught, since she is inconveniently a few months younger than all her friends. There was initial talk of her joining them despite being a few weeks too young, but that has not happened; so she has been left behind and is sometimes unhappy about it.

But depending on numbers, there are odd days she is allowed to go into pre-school and be with them. Today was one such day. Gertie was really happy about it when I collected her, telling me proudly,
"I'm too civilised to be in toddlers, Mummy."
I wasn't sure that I had heard correctly.
"Sorry, darling - you're too what?
"Too civilised."
"Really. And who told you that?"
"Andrew." (One of the carers there.)

I tried, and failed, to hide my amusement, and the damage was well and truly done after making her repeat it several times, then broadcasting it to Daddy as soon as he arrived home.

She realised that there was some value in whatever she was saying, and began running around the sitting room screaming, "I'M TOO CILVILISED! I'M TOO CIVILISED!" at the top of her voice whilst repeatedly bumping into different articles of furniture.

What a shame she is too young to appreciate the irony.

Eventually this metamorphosed into "I'm too 'fizilised'; I'm too 'fizilised'."
Far more appropriate, I think.

Inner Ear and Inner Sanctum

More guilt from the 'recently-working-and-not-very-happy-about-it' mum this week.

My baby, Gilby, got an inner ear infection and I didn't notice it until after the worst was over. I came home on Thursday and spotted lots of nasty gunky stuff in both ears, so rushed him up to the surgery. The doctor actually said to me, "Well he's not in pain now, but he would have been two days ago..." Excuse me while I just punch myself in the head.

On the upside, I have been invited into the 'inner sanctum', as I was included in a night out with the Ummer Nursery Mums this week. (Gertie actually stopped substituting 'ummer' for 'other' a year ago, but for some reason neither my husband nor I have made the same linguistic leap...)

I don't know what I have done to deserve such an honour, but it was good fun and something of an eye-opener. Discussion involved the politics of the nursery (I simply had no idea!) and Other Children. It did make me wonder what might have been said about us on all previous nights out. Whilst the wine flowed, I felt that I was undergoing some kind of test.

Only another invitation will determine whether or not I passed, and meanwhile I will contempate whether or not I want to!

I Didn't Sign Up For This

Parenting is a 'lifestyle choice', apparently.

I knew some of what I was signing up for: anticipated sleepless nights, dreaded terrible twos and supermarket tantrums, and definitely pictured myself making lots of mushy food.

But it is replete with other stuff I wasn't aware of. The small print of parenting; the way you just become immune to things that would be otherwise revolting.

I never thought I would be picking dried snot from a bedsheet, for example, because it was clean on last night and I do enough washing without changing the linen daily...

It never once occurred to me that gradually, over time, it would be come acceptable to leave the house with dribble and/or vomit on my clothes.

And frankly, the thought of scooping a poo from the bath with my bare hands would have been abhorrent three years ago. I can now do it with my 'matter of fact' face on, and barely notice it at all.

What did you not sign up for?

Dry Night

We forgot Gertie's nappy last night.

She has been out of nappies during the day for nearly six months, but we only occasionally and apparently randomly have a 'dry night' and so she has been in a pull-up overnight for ages.

She was getting lazy though, and would just wee in it some nights, immediately before bed, as an excuse to get back up again. Very annoying, and of course they are not cheap. So we had taken to putting it on very last thing, post-last-visit-to-the-toilet. Except that for some reason we didn't put the nappy on at all. It sort of got lost in the goodnight kisses and bedtime story.

And so she came in this morning and it was the first thing she said. Accusingly. "You forgot my nappy. That was a bit silly."

I leapt out of bed immediately, imagining untold horrors in the bedroom. Unfounded.

So now I am wondering whether having the nappy on is the reason for Gertie not being dry at night. She will be three this May, so I suppose that we ought to get on with it.

Any advice for taking this next step gratefully received...

Wardrobe Malfunction

Gertie has become furiously insistent on choosing her own wardrobe every day.

I am happy to encourage this independence, but it comes with a price: The hideous concoction of clashing colours that are perfectly acceptable to a two year old. She is happy for me to rectify wrong-way-round or inside-out errors, but not to offer style advice.

Today, for example she is wearing no less than five different shades of pink, and has explained how she is 'all matching'. (She isn't.)

Now I don't know whether to intervene while I still have the chance; since, frankly, she is not going to accept my fashion insights in a few years time. On the other hand, it seems a shame to stifle the self-expression of toddler. I think I will just have to accept the second-glances as we walk down the street.

Going Postal

It was hard to choose a prompt for this week's writing workshop from Josie at Sleep is for the Weak. (The voices in my head often comment on the things that people wrongly assume about me...) But I have gone for number one: tell about a time when you refused to compromise.

I refuse to compromise over poor service, particular when shopping, banking, or dealing with utilities.

I have just spent six weeks switching bank accounts for the sake of a £22 charge. It was an awful lot of bother to go to, switching all the payments in, direct debits and standing orders, but I absolutely knew that I was in the right. And I was absolutely determined not to let 'them' win. Why should they? It just made me so angry. I have closed the two bank accounts of my children which were held there too, opening simple building society savings accounts for them instead. So I feel quietly smug about it now. That will teach them to try and take £22 from me. And I have taken great delight in writing a letter to the bank in question explaining all my reasoning. Again, a ridiculous amount of bother to go to, but it made me feel much better.

I am quite a letter writer. It only takes a few minutes and always seems much more satisfying, as well as often being more productive, than a request or complaint by email or in person.

As well as the bank thing, I am waiting to hear from my local supermarket. I was overcharged for the third time in a row: you know, when something is on special offer so you pick it up for that reason and then when you get to the counter it doesn't register on the till? In the olden days, BC, I would have noticed it immediately and been able to rectify any descrepancy on the spot, but these days I am always busy at the counter trying to persuade Gertie that she doesn't need the packet of crisps/biscuits/sweets that she has managed to pick up from somewhere, whilst simultaneously trying to soothe Gilby as for some reason he always seems to need a feed the moment I start trying to select groceries. So I am somewhat distracted and just hand over my card to pay with barely an acknowledgement of the total, only realising the error when I get home.

And I know it sounds a little petty, but it is an awful lot quicker to bash out a short letter than to load up the car again with children to return to the store.

And it makes a trip to the post-box quite entertaining; there is always an interesting reply waiting for me.