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Archive for the ‘development’ Category

Trolly dolly totters

Our bumshuffling baby is really no longer a baby.  At eighteen months he has decided that he is finally up on his feet.

I thought it lovely that he was pushed trolley dolly style in the walker by the big girl until this was all he accepted as a mode of transport except for the speedy bumshuffle.  The trolley was definitely not for walking according to the wee man.  Feet were lovely but not for walking on.  Tickling yes, raspberrying yes, kicking yes …. walking NO.

The visit to Cornwall tipped the balance of our toddling fate.  They have a very battered, very loved horse on wheels which my mum fished out of the cupboard for the little boy and he decided that he would deign to get up on his toes for this.  Off he trotted.

Back up north, he viewed our inferior trolley askance and then bumshuffled off before finally tiptoeing back hauling the trolley in front of him.  Now a trip to the shoe shop has done the trick and off he totters, hand held or trolley pushed.  My baby no more.

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Things they have said

The big girl:

  1. You. Do. This. NOW.
  2. Daddy’s got a big one.
  3. He should really cook more often.  Daddy can cook, can’t he?  I didn’t know that.

The little boy:

  1. Hiyiyaaaaaa (hello)
  2. mu (most esteemed and loved mother)
  3. duh (father, giver of food and tickles)
They make me smile.

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Het familie

The child bit of the family consists of the big girl and the little boy, the two tots.  One of whom no longer totters but sprints, clambers and runs with staggering and exhausting proficiency.  The little boy contentedly sits and furthermore looks as though he has NO desire to be on the move.  Hurrah for that.  I do note the difference regarding my attitude – with the big girl, about three years ago I was egging her on as she frog crawled around.  This time with the young man I am relieved that at a similar age he isn’t looking to get mobile and am sending a silent pray that he doesn’t until we move somewhere with slightly less mad stairs and more space.

You might have noticed from this title that het familie contains a Dutch element.  The husband is a Cloggie thus are the children, though we haven’t yet gone through the slightly surreal bureaucracy of getting the little boy registered.  To explain the psychological scarring that occurred updating the husband’s passport and adding on the big girl  is a whole other post; other than to briefly say that the husband’s head does not fit the dimensions allowed on a Dutch identity photo, resulting in multiple trips between a photographer and the Dutch Embassy in Edinburgh all the while traipsing along a grumpy two month old baby and even grumpier, knackered mother.

Oh, there is also a cat.  What more to say except the husband and he adore each other.  He loathes me.  The cat that is, hopefully not the husband.

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