My daughter has turned two, so we can no longer really justify calling her a baby, which is absurd because she is a baby; a baby who can walk and run and say more words each day, but a baby nonetheless. She screams less than she used to and sleeps a lot more. Her interests include lifting things. She cheers on command, sticking her impossibly edible little arms in the air and saying ‘Yaaaaaay!’ for no reason science can discern. She is wonderful.
She is still moody and a drama queen. She registers her discontent with the world – and this, several times each day – by theatrically hanging her head in front of her body in the manner of Charlie Brown, before slowly, sadly walking around us as if on a one-person parade of hurt feelings. A course of action which is, unfortunately for her, hilarious.
Her favourite food is raisins, or rather, ‘six raisins, with throwing the rest of the box everywhere for dessert’. She does not enjoy the state of being surrounded by raisins, nor do we love the task of picking them up everywhere she has been, in the manner of that bird that ate Hansel and Gretel’s trail, but the concept of ‘cause and effect’ is not her strongest suit.
Her first favourite thing is washing her face with a wet cloth and/or running it under any tap low enough for her to access. Her least favourite thing is ending up soaking wet 45 seconds later. She is incensed by loud noises and ostentatiously presses her palms to her ears when offended by the volume of others. This despite being one of the most active producers of loud noises in the borough of Waltham Forest, liable to yelp, squeal, shout or scream at any point and for any reason.
Some of these outbursts live on long after they are released, wobbling a few more dying strands of your ear drum for minutes afterward. Her register is so piercing, in fact, that it has resulted in a trauma response every time I hear the angle grinder used by the workmen renovating the house next door, as it is the only other noise that comes close to her keening wail and will convince me she is in nearby distress, even when safely ensconced in her nursery, four streets away.
She is inquisitive. Her slow walks through the neighbourhood, either holding me by the finger or else ploughing on ahead of me with her hands behind her back in the manner of a country parson, are a cavalcade of discovery. She takes joy from leaves and dogs and cars and clouds. She knows the name of one colour – yellow, but pronounces it ‘lellow’ – and ascribes this to the entire spectrum of visible light. We are unsure what this achieves in her mind.
Most days, she wakes us up laughing and throws her hands into the air when we walk into her room as if to applaud us for showing up. She wraps those pudgy arms round my neck and gives big, gummy ‘mwah’ kisses, because this is how she shows her love. She is adorable. She is adored. And I will call her my baby until she learns how to tell me to stop.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
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