I don't wanna (Anna)

What is about toddlers that means that when they don't want to do something their legs turn to spaghetti, they grow eight arms and they don't seem to have any armpits any more?

Negotiations 2 (Anna)

She's now started negotiating in her sleep. We heard her sleep talking the other day: "Two more minutes, Mummy. Please?" I wonder what she was dreaming about.

Negotiations (Anna)

Over the past few weeks, Emma has learnt to negotiate. "Two more minutes, Mumma?" she'll beg. "Five more minutes, Mummy" and she'll hold up some random number of fingers to emphasize her point.

Tonight, she was "swimming" in the bath, and it was time to move on to stories. I told her, "Two more minutes, kiddo."

Negotiation time. She looked at me pleadingly and put on her cutest, most cajoling look. "One minute, Mumma, please? Pleeeeease, Mumma?" she begged, with a big toothy grin.

And because she asked so nicely, I happily changed her two more minutes to one more minute.

Independence (Anna)

Emma is an independent little creature, who likes to do things by herself, her way. I believe it's a criterion for the diagnosis of "toddler".

We've spent the weekend away in the hot springs, swimming several times a day. Emma loves it. But she wants more independence than we are willing to give her. She says "Go away, Mumma/Mummy. I do it myself" every few minutes. At one point, she told me to go back to our room and go to bed because she wanted to swim by herself. She doesn't mean it in a mean way, but just in a "I don't need your help because I'm perfectly old enough to go swimming by myself" kind of way. It must be very frustrating for her to find that not only do we not go away, but we hover less than a metre from her whenever we're in the water.

But sometimes, independence is a bit much for her. She was on the potty the other day and, after a day of successful potty-ing, there was no more poo forthcoming. She looked at me forlornly and said, "Mumma do it? Mumma push the poo out?" I had to tell her that there are some things we just have to do for ourselves. It's a hard lesson at any age, and I guess it starts early.

Other phenomenom that are hard to explain to toddlers...distance and time. For example, why are Granny Heath and Grandad available for cuddles one week, and then only visible on Skype the next? Another example came up just the othr week. We were hiking in a forest near Vancouver. As soon as we saw the trees Emma said, "Trees! We see koalas climbing gum trees?" How to explain to a toddler that, no, we are very unlikely to see koalas in a park in Vancouver because they live in an entirely different habitat on the other side of the world? And to explain that just because she could get in the car in Brisbane and get out and see koalas just a few weeks ago doesn't mean she can do that here and now. I mean, even we have difficulty understanding that concept sometimes.

Conversations (Anna)

1) We were all awake long before the alarm this morning, and when it finally went off, Emma and I were very much awake and playing on the bed.

She looked at the alarm, and said, 'Alarm' and then looked at me pleadingly. "Two more minutes, Mumma, please. Please. I want sleep".

2) Emma, chatting to herself. "I a big boy. Yeah. Emma. Big boy. Mumma's a big boy. Yeah. Mummy's a big boy. Emma big boy. I am big boy. Yeah."

More melting moments (Anna)

Emma was crying in her cot, so I went up to give her a cuddle.

She said, "I miss Mumma," and I replied, "Ah. So you need a Mumma cuddle?"

She said "Yeah. Big cuddles." And she put her arms up and I pulled her out of bed and we gave each other big squeezes. Then she said, "I need Mumma kisses." So I gave her 2 or 3 (ok, 5 or 6 or 7) kisses, and she gave me lots of those big sloppy toddler kisses that I love so much.

Then I put her back in her cot. She blew kisses at me, asked for another cuddle and said, "I love oo Mumma" and I said, "I love you too, little one."

Then she settled back under her blankets, and said "I happy. I go sleep now."

My poor heart is a big fat puddle on the ground these days.

Quote of the day (Anna)

Being the terrible parents we are, we were letting Emma drink the "juice" (sauce) from her stirfry bowl tonight.

We commented that she looked like a little dog lapping up water from her bowl. She liked that and repeated the joke several times to herself and chortled.

About ten minutes later, she put down her fork and spoon and started to drink it again. We teased her about it and I said something like "What are we teaching you, my uncivilised little daughter? You are a little ruffian."

She looked at me very seriously and shook her head. "I not a ruffian, Mumma," she corrected me, and then, just to avoid any misunderstandings, she clarified, "I a dog."

Things that really shouldn't matter but do (Anna)

Today, Emma came home with a Valentine's Day card for us with "Mommy" and "Mama" written in large letters on it.

Now, on the one hand, spelling our names wrong really doesn't matter. The folks at day care were extremely well-meaning, and the piece is lovely and made (mostly) by our gorgeous daughter. When she's older, she will either spell our names correctly, or choose her own spelling, which will be fine (you can remind me I said that when it actually happens). And they included both of us, and they are tuned in to Emma's language enough to know that when she refers to Mummy and Mumma, she's talking about two different people.

And it's an easy mistake - every single one of our close friends and relatives has made the same one at some point, and we're not offended. Who has the time and energy to figure out how one kid's parents spell their pet names? We'd much rather Emma's daycare carers spend time on the important things, which doesn't include getting worried about what they write on Emma's art. Not to mention the fact that we don't have a clue what most of Emma's friends call their parents or how they spell those names.

So it's probably only because I'm sensitive to language that it matters at all. And because the premise is that Emma wrote it, even though of course we know that that's not true.

See, we deliberately chose our names. It's a "u" not an "o" because of our Australian/English backgrounds. Other people may be "mommies" but that just doesn't feel like us.

And for me, Mumma is a really important name. I spent a lot of time figuring out what felt right. There's the cultural capital of it being a form of Mum/Mom, but it also includes my initial. Nobody would be in any doubt about who Emma was talking about, but it was still unique and individual. And when I chose it, I had never met a single person anywhere in the world who called themselves Mumma and spelled it that way (that doesn't mean they don't exist; I just hadn't met any of them. And that has very recently changed, but that's another story). I don't feel like a Mama, or a Momma, I feel like a Mumma. Emma's Mumma. And Caroline is Mummy. Collectively, we're the Mums, not the Mommies or the Mummies or anything else.

So, while part of me is scoffing at myself for even thinking about it, another part of me wants to erase the words and rewrite them so that they 're right. Except of course they're written in black ink and can't be changed.

I know, I know. I can't help it. Language just matters to me.

Dr. Emma (Anna)

I'm curled up on the couch sick.

Last night, Emma was the sweetest little thing.

I told her that I wasn't feeling very well. She turned to Caroline and said, "Mumma's sick. Yucky belly."

Then she said, "Blanket Mumma?" and when I said yes please, she pulled it up gently over me and tucked me in.

She stroked my hair and kissed my forehead, and then gave me a big hug.

First, she went to get her very favourite toy - her baby doll Victoria - and tucked her in under the blanket so I would have something to cuddle. She did the same with one of her teddy bears.

Then she went to get her toy medical kit, found the "medicine" syringe and said "Open your mouth, Mumma. I got medicine." And she fed me my "medicine" and gave me another kiss.

Then she went and got a book, plopped down beside the couch and said, "I read to Mumma" and then did exactly that. Periodically, she got back up to give me a nuzzle and a kiss.

If "melting heart" was a medical condition, I'd be in hospital for the duration of my daughter's childhood.