If I blink, I’m sure I’ll see my newborn baby staring back at me again. At the very end of June, my tiny, mewling, red and wrinkled little bundle will turn three years old. Three years old. Suddenly that’s so grown-up.

She proved just how grown-up she’s becoming by insisting on taking her own bag, purse and baby to the shop in her quest for chocolate this afternoon. As well as the pram she pushed all the way there, she had a card to post in the postbox. She took her responsibilities incredibly seriously, even asking me to put her hair into bunches so she could impress any passers-by who might stop to chat.

As she strode on ahead of me, I couldn’t help but smile. My two year old has been an independent soul from the moment she was born, refusing to drink her milk from anywhere other than its source and screaming at the sight of a spoon she couldn’t hold herself.

She’s always wanted to do things her own way and been very clear about what that way is. So you can imagine her satisfaction at pushing her own pram, with her own babies, holding her own bag and her own purse, all the way to the shops.

She was in her element.

As I watched her wonky little feet place firmly on the ground, I could hardly remember this time last year, when she had to walk holding both my hands to keep from falling over.

Sometimes the frustrated independence of a toddler is draining, especially when they realise they can’t do the task they’ve set out to complete. But today it was refreshing. A small trip to the village shop was enough to count as an adventure in my daughter’s eyes, when she realised she’d be allowed to take her pram for the first time ever.

Oh to be two again.