I sometimes feel like this blog is one of those Seinfeldian blogs about nothing. When I was going through IF treatment there was an obvious theme to be had. Logic would dictate that once I spawned successfully, this blog would be about my daughter. Oddly enough, I don't blog of her often, but I don't avoid her purposefully. Instead, I seem to ramble about random stuff largely unrelated to IF, pregnancy, and motherhood. I think I've trained myself to not be one of those women by talking of P constantly, a mindset which has carried over to my blogging life. Much to the chagrin of the NCLM populace I imagine, I have made it my vow to talk about P more.
So here we are. P is staring down the barrel of two, as she'll hit that landmark on the 19th of July. I don't know where those two years have disappeared to, but suddenly a little girl has taken my baby away. My blog, at least in my own deluded world, is a more avant garde approach to...nothing and everything. As such, I thought I'd tell you about some of P's idiocyncracies and odder moments.
She loves to be commanding and dictatorial. Some of her favourite phrases are, "Eat it!", "Get up!", "More! More!" (occasionally followed by "pwees"), "Out!" and "Read it!" Often P brings me a sticky nasal surprise on the tip of her pointer finger, waves it in my face, shouting "Eat it! Eat it!" When actual food is involved I say "You eat it!" in response to her demands, but I don't need to provoke her when it comes to her own snot. She's more than happy to snack on it without my invitation.
I have dreams that P will take after me in her interests - books, music, and the arts. It's possible this may still happen; P does love a good book on farm animals, though her favourite music (nursery rhymes and "Umbrella" by Rihanna) leave much to be desired. If you say, "You can stand under my umbrella" to her, she will run around for the next five minutes saying, "Ella ella". Her father is a lover of numbers, finance, and business concepts. My child counts like a motherfucker, and every object in life is meant to be turned into a series of numbers. No book can be read, no television show watched without an obsessive concern with quantity. Eight cars! Two dogs! Three moons! Always! said! with! such! enthusiasm!
P is so English, it kills me - in a good way of course. She doesn't say a hard "r", which I know is also down to her age and immature speech patterns, but to hear her say "beah" for "bear", "cah" for "car", amongst others. Her terminology is endearingly polite in its Britishness. She says "pardon" when she farts ("I fot") or burps, "pwees" when she wants something, "ta" when she gets it, and uses the word "trousers" instead of "pants".
P had a teacher at daycare whom she loved, Jemma. Jemma is tall, blond, and some would consider her attractive. I used to joke with The Dude that he was totally warm for her form, much denial ensued, blah blah blah. Jemma left recently for a new job, and P has struggled to cope with this loss. When I ask her who she has seen at school that day, she always starts with Jemma. She has just started saying, "Jemma. Bye-bye. In cah, wid daddy" Not surprisingly, Daddy has absolutely no memory of driving into the sunset with the nubile nursery teacher. Oh, the mileage I have gotten out of this phrase, a phrase which P repeats at least five or six times every day.
Ever since P was old enough to start to develop a discernable personality, I've had an idea that she is going to be quite a handful. She is mischevious, rambunctious, and has a definite predisposition to cheeky naughtiness. Last week I was holding her and she slapped me three times on the boob. I asked her to stop, and she looked at me quizically, paused, and said, "Five!", alluding to high five. She actually tried to evade getting into trouble by pretending she was trying to give me a high five and I was the one not cooperating. Now I'm nervous that she's going to be a brilliant criminal mastermind, or a devious seductress serial killer.
I should also take this time to mention that not once have I sworn in front of P, er, at least not since she could pick up language anyway. Oh,and that time two weeks ago when The Dude was totally kicking me whilst I was down (emotionally) and I shouted, "Fuck off already you fucking asshole!", to which P shouted gleefully, "FUN!" It appears as if my foul language did not clearly fall on her innocent ears. When I was pregnant, someone commented on here that my child would surely be dropping f and c bombs with the frequency that other children talk about Dora. I'm pleased to announce that ha! - of this moment this is not so. Ok, so she does say "fuck" instead of "fork", and "fuck" also manages to be "soap" (??), but that is obviously just a linguistic toddlerian flaw, not a repeat of my vulgarities. I am but a lady, after all.
Since I'm pushing the boat out here and not shutting the fuck up about my kid, I'll make you view some pictures as well because I am just that cruel. These are from our little trip to the beach the other day. Her toes touched the water briefly about 546 times, she saw a large older woman sunbathing topless, played with two dead crabs, and took a gulp of saltwater mixed with sand from her bucket. It was a good day.