The kid walks himself up and down the corridor with his block trolley, cackling like a fiend and trilling his high-pitched little bird call at me whenever he needs help turning around.
He loves the sandpit, and will leap into the arms of any random neighbour who happens to be in the back yard, in the hopes that they will ignore their wet washing and instead take him on a grand tour of the premises. They always oblige, cos he is Captain Freaking Cute.
He has a vocabulary of six hundred thousand objects he can point at if you name them, and he understands every goddamn thing you say. We're up to the part of life where you spell things so your offspring can't tell what you're talking about.
He points at the number '3' on our door every time we come home and his little tongue is catching up with his brain... it almost sounds like a word now.
He has spent minutes at a time - like, 30 of them - posting 20-cent coins into his giraffe money box, one by one, and then shaking them out and starting again. It is heaven, for both of us.
He loves parks, all of them, and will point at his red sling (the 'joey pouch') hanging on the doorknob whenever the whim for a spot of slide-climbing takes him. He always goes down head-first.
Work is great. I have zero mother guilt, and I don't even feel guilty about that, now that those bastard hormones have left the building. It might be different if there were childcare involved, but the grandmother thing is working out a treat.
We had a first birthday party with the mother's group peeps a couple of weeks ago.
|That's my kid.|
Attention, future me: Life was effing brilliant here. Don't you forget it.