The wrong picture.

June 29, 2014


If I were allowed only one photo to sum up each of my children, this is the wrong one for Beatrix. Happily, it's just A picture, not THE picture and obviously, sometimes she looks like this. Sometimes. The rest of the time she is usually squeezing a doll to her chest and trying to find her big sister. Or carrying a handbag, looking very busy and important, and grown up. 15 months is a glorious age. Having had my head pretty permanently over a bucket communing with the gods of morning sickness at this point in Violet's life I can say without doubt and with a little sadness, that I missed out on much of this ages' beauty first time around. Not to worry, swings and roundabouts. I'm amazed at what she can do/say/understand and I'm constantly having to keep myself aware of the fact that she's also got Violet to copy and converse with. I've been telling everyone- last week she started coming to me, clutching her nappy-clad bottom saying "poo-poo" (in the most adorable of ways, with lips barely opening and cheeks fat with air) and lo, just minutes after, she goes number 2 every time. A baby genius! Or, a baby-toddler who desperately wants to be a big girl like big sister. I guess that is up for interpretation, ha. Of course, I did enthusiastically get out the potty this evening and let's just say that if your interpretation was that she's not quite ready for that just yet thankyouverymuch, then you were right.

Two is wonderful. Three might be better (or four, or five, dear lord I hope Rob isn't reading this today!) and a couple of months ago I thought I would explode with cluckiness. There's more time, there's more time, is a mantra I have been using when that feeling becomes overwhelming. I've hit the baby jackpot and they just adore each other. You can tell because Violet likes to tell everyone she sees that excuse me, my best friend is Beatie, not mummy and not daddy and your best friend is not Beatie, my best friend is Beatie. Or, by the way Beatie will go into their shared bedroom and come out looking very pleased with herself "wearing" Violet's clothes. Or, by the cute little (cute? or mean and I should stop this in it's tracks?) thing they have going on when they eat sandwiches. Violet eats the guts and passes the crusts or Beatie who dutifully eats them up and passes over her sandwiches, rinse repeat.

But this is about Beatie, who snuggles in bed with me to have very long and very serious conversations about my facial features. I have a mow, an eye, a no, an ee and some air. Figures. And who loves to brush and play with my hair, and cover my face in kisses as she accidentally pulls it with her little fingers. There is nothing as divine as baby and toddler kisses given freely without being asked. Nothing, I say! My girl, my girl, both of them. We have been living well and haven't missed you a bit, dear blog, but the days are short and sometimes I know, I know, I'll regret not writing these moments out for the time they're grown, and I am missing fingers jammed in my ears, and the sweet squeak of "ee! ee!". x

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