I squinted in the general direction she was pointing, desperately trying to seek out the mountain she was so eager to show me.

Nothing.

“There’s no mountain poppet, just a lot of trees and some water,” breaking the news gently. Panicking now, she started jumping up and down. “No Mummy! Look! A MOUNTAIN!”

And then I saw it. A beautiful fountain gurgling merrily away. Ah. So that was it.

This was not the first case of mistaken identity to befall my daughter. At three years old, she has a pretty impressive vocabulary but there are some words that allude her.

“Daddy got a Number Two on his arm,” she told me last night. Horrified, I searched my husband’s arm to let him know of the foul mess that had somehow made its way there. Instead, I found a tattoo that he’s sported since before we met.

A few days ago, at a local farm, Frog wanted to find the “Chick cunks”. It didn’t take long to work out she was after Alvin, Simon, Theodore and friends.

So far though, we have yet to beat her error when spotting a particular vehicle. It’s a tiny mistake – only one letter in fact. But a vital one. Especially when you take into consideration that she tends to yell at the top of her voice when she sees one.

“LOOK! MUMMY! LOOK!”

As I see it swerve towards us I panic, knowing what’s coming next. It’s a busy street. Plenty of people around.

“MUUUUUUUM! It’s a….. DOUBLE-DICKER BUS!”

I can never leave the house again.

***

Linking up with Wot So Funnee? at Actually Mummy.

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The same goes for “ketchup”. It no longer goes by this name (where did the word “ketchup” come from anyway?!), it’s now known as “chechup”. A subtle alteration, but important just the same.

There are lots of words I thought I knew, having spoken English all my life. But, apparently, I am wrong.

For example, “other” does not exist. No form of the word will now be accepted anywhere in the world. Instead, it has been changed to “blue”. In plain (new) English, this means you do not ask for the “other blanket” or “other book” or “other shoe”. You ask for the “blue blanket” or “blue book” or “blue shoe”. Even if none of the above are blue. These are just the rules – if you question them you get hit in the face.

As a person who earns her living using words, these radical and sudden changes to her mother tongue are confusing and stressful. They’re so stressful, she has started referring to herself in the third person. See? It’s sending her my mind into all sorts of grammatical meltdowns.

Actually, I’ve just realised I’ve made a terrible error. When I referred to “blanket” above, what I actually meant to say was “makkots” (not to be confused with maggots). Yep, the word “blanket” has actually been banned. Sorry about that.

In other important English Language news, you’ll be pleased to hear your favourite song, The Wheels on the Bus, has NOT changed in any way. So if in doubt as to the words you should employ in your every day sentences (given the current delicate and ever-changing word situation), the only thing you can really be sure of is that The Wheels on the Bus still do – as ever – go round and round.

(And yes, that is ketchup on her nose.)

The post The Toddler English Dictionary appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

The child I know.

When I look at Frog, I see a happy, fun, incredibly independent little girl. I don’t see a toddler that can’t do what other toddlers can.

But when I collected her from the childminder’s today, that wasn’t the case.

Although my nearly-22 month old was beyond excited to see me, the childminder said she’d spent most of the day watching from the sidelines. Because she can’t walk yet like all the other kids, she’s often happy on her own in the corner, reading a book. That’s not what bothers me so much as the next thing the childminder observed: she’s not talking. At all.

Now, this surprises me, because the little girl I know – the one who I spend all my time with at home – doesn’t shut up.

This is the Frog that my neighbours know, the Frog that chases (or attempts to chase) the boys and dogs and cats that live in our little close. This is the Frog that wanders into the next door neighbour’s garden (granted, still holding my hand) and helps herself to a toy, pair of shoes and the trampoline, all the while calling to her favourite friend “Arrfuur“.

She’s certainly not quiet.

But she’s not like that when I’m not around, apparently. Or at least, not at the childminder’s anyway. There, she holds her hands in front of her face when a stranger enters the room. She’s silent most of the time, only uttering the occasional word under her breath.

When I proudly reeled off the latest developments in her speech – attempts at counting, animal noises and colour recognition – the childminder looked at me blankly. “She doesn’t do any of that here”, she said.

So I’m worrying.

As every other working mum I know, I’m wondering if I’m doing the right thing going off to work every morning. I’m only spending afternoons with her. Is this wrong? I’m wondering if she’s unhappy at the childminder’s, or if she just had an off day today and needs to settle back in after the Easter holidays.

I’m worrying that she doesn’t like it there and would be better off at nursery. I’m worrying that she’s got problems socialising with other kids. I’m worrying that she’s shy and that this will hold her back later in life.

I’m worrying. Nonsensical worrying. Damned worrying.

Tell me this is normal.

The post Tell me this is normal appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

You may not be walking yet, but at 21 months old you’re certainly not a baby.

What you are like now:

1) You shout NO! A lot.

2) You’re rapidly going off wearing a nappy.

3) You sing yourself to sleep with that popular nursery rhyme all about a Russian oligarch with a bladder problem; Tinkle Tinkle Little Tsar is your favourite song.

4) You read stories to yourself. Unsurprisingly you tend to be the main character. The Very Hungry Caterpillar is actually called The Very Hungry Frog, apparently.

5) You now properly “cook” in your kitchen. Rather than just banging your wooden spoons and throwing dried rice around, you’ve started to pour things into pots and stir imaginary stews on the hob. Yesterday I watched you turning the tap on and off, making the, “Whoooosh” sound of the water. When I asked if the water was cold you looked at me scornfully, before replying, “Yeah”.

Frog, I have to remind myself of these little milestones because it’s easy to forget. Your legs may not be up to speed yet, but your mind certainly is.

You’ll be sixteen before I know it. (Hopefully by then you’ll have figured out that eyeliner is not for use on the nose.)

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I remember this clearly, because I’d been worried she would never smile. Just as with everything else, Frog was the last of her baby peers to reach the smiling milestone.

And today is cause for celebration of a similar ilk. It’s a momentous day. We have reached a truly huge landmark in Frog’s early years.

At the age of 20 months old, Frog has achieved something incredibly special.

We have finally, finally experienced our First Public Tantrum. Joy.

I now know how it feels to be that mother. You know the one. You must see her in the supermarket most weekends, standing forlornly by as her children lie in the middle of the aisle kicking and screaming.

Up until now I had never truly experienced that feeling of hot shame and utter ground-swallow-me-up nausea. I’d looked on with sympathy as other mothers attempted all techniques of tantrum negotiation, from bribery and shouting to the simple art of ignoring the young offender. I’d even silently made judgments about certain methods, noting these parents down as future Supernanny victims, clearly ignorant in the simple art of parenting.

No longer.

This afternoon, Frog pulled an absolute blinder. The tantrum involved a large Next clothing store, a pair of shoes and a disgruntled sales assistant. We left to the piercing screams of, “NO, NO, NO, SHOES, MINE, MINE, SHOES, ME, ME, ME, SHOOOOOOOOOOES!”

I doubt we’ll be going back.

(And yes, she’s still yet to walk.)

Obsessed with shoes

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Smiling for the camera in true diva fashion.

My daughter is a diva. Not in a good way.

This has never been more evident than in her behaviour this week. At times I thought she was actually going to put a pair of sunglasses on her 18 month old face and strut out of the room shouting “Talk to the hand, ‘cos the face ain’t listenin’…”.

Thursday was the pinnacle of the superstar behaviour. At around 2.30pm I received a text from the childminder saying “Please call me when you receive this message”. With my heart racing and my stomach churning I found out my daughter needed collecting. Immediately.

“She’s not settled at all today,” said the childminder. “She’s been off her food and I’m sure she has an ear infection”.  Already feeling Mother Guilt kicking me up the backside for going to work when my child was clearly ill, I managed to get her a last-minute appointment with the doctor that evening.

And it was here that Frog was replaced with Britney Spears.

As the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine and I nervously chatted in low voices amongst ourselves, Frog swanned around the waiting room (if crawling can be done in a “swan-like” manner) waving at each and every one of the other patients, before hiding her face in mock shyness.

Convinced my child was just showing some true inherited Northern grit, I told the doctor she was very poorly and really wasn’t herself. “Let me take a look at her”, he said, in a business-like tone.

This didn’t go down well. The ensuing scene involved Frog being pinned by her father as the doctor attempted to find the source of the nasty infection in her ear. “There’s really nothing wrong with her”, he announced. “By the way, is she walking yet?”

This question prompted a snort of disapproval from my already annoyed 18 month old. Leaning forward and taking a swipe at his stethoscope, Frog made it clear what she thought of this doctor and his inclination towards moving around on two feet.

Undeterred the doctor suggested we walk Frog round the room, holding hands, so he could see exactly how mobile she was. Inwardly sighing I lifted my daughter to the floor and attempted to persuade her to walk.

But Britney was back. And kicking. And screaming. And hitting the ground. And rolling around. And more kicking.

Before sitting up and announcing a word not disimilar to “Duck” but far more offensive.

I don’t think we’ll be going back.

The post And you thought Britney Spears was a diva… appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

And this is Frog now:

I’m amazed at how much can happen to a little body in a year.

From rolling to sitting, eating to crawling, to attempted walking (still to be mastered) and now…talking.

At 16 months old, I feel like I’m getting to know my daughter all over again. She may not be putting one foot in front of the other yet and she may make lots of strange gurgly noises, but she’s certainly not my tiny baby any more. She’s a diva, with a huge personality.

She can laugh hysterically and scream in the same breath. She can stamp her feet in a way Maria Carey would be proud of. And boy, that girl can talk. She never shuts up actually – I’ve no idea who she gets it from.

Just last week Frog had only one proper, understandable word in her vocabulary: Mummy. She used it for everything. “I want milk”, translated to “Mummy mummy mummy”. “I’ve done a poo”, translated to “Muuuuuummy Muuuummy”. It was incessant.

But now she’s added Daddy, No and Dog to the list. She can tell you what noise a dog makes (“Woof”, in case you weren’t already aware) and what noise a cow makes (it’s “Moo”, just so you’re clear). She can point to her head, nose, mouth and ears when asked where each part of the body is. She can scream at the right place in Row Row Row Your Boat. And she has a new name for me.

Apparently she’s outgrown the use of Mummy already. From now on I’m to be called by my first name only. “Molly” is the new “Mummy” don’t you know.

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