Birdsong

Along with the sound of the dentist’s drill, automated messaging services, and your boss telling you you’re fired, the sound of the alarm clock going off in the morning has to be one of the most dreaded sounds in the world. Of late, we’ve been less dependent on our alarm because Amelie has taken it upon herself to wake us up with her singing. As previously mentioned, she has watched Something Special so many times now she can sing the theme song, but more impressive than that, she has begun to recite the script. It’s true. This morning, both Carla and I heard this coming from the baby monitor:

“Harrow, harrow... how are’u...Harrow, harrow, good see you... I say harrow. Happy you came. I say harrow, please tell me... please tell me... please tell me your dame. Harrow, my name Justin. Magic dust, blow it. Going to football ground. I like football. D'you?”

Her speaking is still disjointed, but she’s stringing more words together. So much so, she’s been bumped up to the Farmers class at nursery, which in laymen’s terms is the class with all the big children in. Allegedly she was firing words at the other children in her class, but getting very little back in terms of conversation. What a two year child wants to talk about is beyond me, but her rambling proved too much for her class friends and now she’s in with children from the ages of two to four. Hopefully they’ll understand her more.

I’m also thinking of taking up yoga. My back is suffering from the evening routine that’s been established when Amelie arrives back from nursery. I’m usually upstairs, writing, and I’ll hear her shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” I come down and pick her up. She offers her cheek for a quick kiss, and, if I’m lucky, a hug. Then she asks, “Up ta’sky?” Up ta’sky means Amelie wants me to throw her up to the ceiling and catch her, which, when she was one years old, wasn’t so demanding on all my limbs and back. Not content for a couple of throws, Amelie now wants three sets of throwing, and after one is finished, she curls her index finger into a hook and says, “One more?” One more in her mind means, keep going. Suffice it to say, my arms feel like they’re about to drop off and my back as fragile as glass.

Save for the kiss upon entering the house, if I ask for a second, she runs away and says, “Chase you?” which doesn’t me she will chase me, but I have to chase her. This is fine, but it tends to end with me scooping her up in my arms, and kissing her cheek, which again, after multiple up ta’skies, leaves me exhausted. Still, it’s lovely to see her so happy. Shame it ends with me wheezing and walking around like an octogenarian, but her laughter blows away the pain.
Other than that, Amelie’s personality is growing quicker than her feet, which, incidentally, have developed their own odour (she also knows now that her nappy smells, so her nose is getting well adapted to different scents, so “blaming the farts on the baby” routine might have to end ), and much to my father’s delight, she can say, “granddad” instead of “gaddad”.

The other day, I put Amlie on the phone to my mum, and she said hello, and then mentioned she went swimming. My mum then told me afterwards, “I’ve had a conversation with her!” Barely, but I’m sure it won’t be long.