I love listening to you talk: to me, to your friends, to yourself.
You are just starting to talk in sentences, and your speech patterns, entirely unique to you, are so special. I want to bottle them up and never forget them.
Today, your first conversation with me was adorable. I was working upstairs, and up you came.
‘Mummy…’ you started, ‘mummy…’ (repetition is always necessary – at least three times saying my name before you find your words) ‘mummy… am I… allowed… my tab-let?’ Your speech is broken and halting; I can see you searching hard for the words in your head. This is such a new skill, but one you are determined to get right. You understand words are power. ‘Bunny say… I allowed… her… tab-let.’ you finished.
During this, I couldn’t help but smile. You were like a tiny little person – not a baby anymore, (which you regularly tell me: ‘I not a baby!’ you shout pretty much every day, massively grinning always) – a tiny little person either asking sweetly for permission for screen time, or possibly trying to get one over on your daddy who might have said ’no’ already. I can never tell with you.
You chatter all day – sometimes making less sense than others. You have developed a comedic way of speaking which is part shout, part dodgy accent; instead of, ‘I don’t know,’ we get, ‘ah-doh-noh,’ said quickly and sharply and unusually deeply… the best part of it is that you know you’re being funny. As you speak with this newly discovered humour, you look out of the corner of your eyes with a cheeky smile because you know I will start laughing.
And an added pleasure today was I got to listen in on your world as you chatted to one of your friends. It went something like this…
You: ‘Lil… Lil… Lil…’ (always the repetition) ‘what are you looking about.’
Lil: ‘Nothing. I looking at a bee.’
You: ‘Oh… has you seen a bee?’
You: ‘Oh… I see a bee!’
Lil: ‘You see a bee?!’
You: ‘Yes. A bee… on the brick.’
Lil: ‘Where is the bee?’
You: ‘There. The bee. On the brick there.’
Lil: ‘I see bee! Oh… hello bee!’
You: ‘Hello, bee!’
I appreciate that none of these conversations are of interest to anyone but me, but I feel like you are growing up so fast. I want to hold on to every bit of these years when you’re so small and so ours. It wont be long now until we are forced to share you with the world; this time next year I’ll know which primary school you are going to for sure, and I feel like time is going too fast. So, this letter to you is an attempt to capture these little moments. Even if I’m the only one who wants to read about them – over and over and over again.