I have them. Every. Single. Day.

Especially at the moment. I look back at those snuggly, sleep-deprived newborn days and remember how I used to hold my milky baby close to me, drinking in the smell of her head as she snored on my chest. During those weeks I thought I could never love anyone or anything as much as I loved that tiny creature.

But I was wrong.

Because that tiny creature has turned into a bundle of energy, sass and attitude. That tiny creature has blossomed into a lanky toddler with a laugh loud enough to fill any Olympic stadium. That tiny creature is now a little girl, with likes and dislikes, a sense of humour and the ability to articulate what makes her cross.

As every day passes our conversations develop so that I get to know my daughter a little more each week. I know she has a mischievous streak and will run barefoot across stones to avoid bedtime if she doesn’t feel like it. I know she likes to eat sausages with tomato ketchup now – and tomato ketchup alone. I know she loves new clothes, especially ones of the dressing-up variety. And books – she can’t get enough of them.

The other night at bedtime, Frog threw a massive wobbler. Screaming and thrashing around and kicking, my two year old railed against me, the woman trying to make her go to sleep. After five minutes she stopped and looked up at me through a mist of tears. “I angry Mummy,” she told me. “I sorry Mummy,” before leaning down and giving me a kiss. She’s never done that before.

I like this blossoming flower. And I can’t wait to find out who she’s going to be next week.

Frog, this time 2 years ago.

Frog, this time last year.

Frog, now.

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Don’t get me wrong. She finally mastered the art of crawling about four months after all the other babies we know, and is now very good at it – speedy even. And she’s up on her feet every bloomin’ minute of the day. But she just won’t do it on her own.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I even write about it sometimes. I attempt this laid back approach, reassuring myself, “She’ll do it when she’s ready” and, “Lots of toddlers aren’t walking by 17 months”. But the closer we get to that big 1-7 (on the 27th November) the more I feel a little bit antsy about the whole thing.

Why isn’t she walking yet? Is there something wrong with her feet? Is it the talipeze back to haunt us again? (That’s a wonky foot, by the way, from when Frog was all scrunched up inside me in the womb.) Is there something wrong with her hips? Does it mean she’s not very bright? But she’s walking while holding hands – isn’t that a sign she’s OK? And so on, and so forth.

It doesn’t help when you see the other toddlers – running and jumping now. And those comments that are meant as a kind starter to a conversation but now just make me inwardly roll my eyes. “Still not walking then?!” etc etc.

And then there are the babies, six months younger than Frog, who are confidently striding up and down the park, with their parents looking pityingly at me, the mother of The Late Walker.

I realise this is all in my head of course. Yet again it’s that Competitive Mum I thought to have buried forever. That one that swore she’d never stress about a baby milestone ever again. And here I am, stressing.

I think the final tipping point was the other day. I was chatting to another mum while Frog played with her son. This lady’s son is ten months old, just.

The lady asked when Frog’s first birthday is going to be, and was surprised to hear it has been and gone already. Turned out she thought Frog was the same age as her son.

Looking at my reluctant walker, playing at her feet, this lady hadn’t seen a little girl. All she had seen was a little baby, crawling around on the floor. She didn’t hear when Frog pointed to a picture of a dog and said, “Woof”. She didn’t see her pick up a triangle and put it in the shape sorter, first time. She didn’t see Frog point to her nose when asked where it was. She didn’t hear her mutter, “Car” under her breath when a car drove past.

She missed every little detail that points to the fact Frog is, in fact, a toddler who doesn’t toddle. Not a baby at all.

"I may not be walking, but I'm a mean cup stacker."

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It hasn’t been an instant discovery.

There was the fascination with her hands when she was around six months old, with the constant inspection of her fingers. And then came the perusal of her feet and examination of each toe. Each day brings a new discovery of body part, which occupies my 15 month old daughter for a good few hours.

And now we appear to have moved on to a new area.

It started a month or so ago. In the bath Frog looked down and – bam! There it was. Sitting right between her legs. Almost as if it had been there all the time and she’d only just noticed it. She prodded it for a while before moving on to another task. And it looked like she’d forgotten about her new discovery.

But then yesterday the three year old boy from next door came round to play. After around an hour he whipped off his trousers and pants before jumping up and shouting, “Ta daaaa!”

And Frog was fascinated, not to mention a little bit peeved. She couldn’t take her eyes off the new display in front of her. It’s fair to say she was green with envy.

Later that night, Frog spent a good twenty minutes examining her own in-between-the-legs area (I’m aware that is a rubbish way to refer to it – we still haven’t decided on a “name”). And then she cried. And cried and cried and cried.

If she could talk I know she’d be wailing, “But I don’t want to be a girl!”

And so, at 15 months old, my child has already learned one of life’s cruel lessons. I now have to try to persuade her why being a girl really isn’t so bad afterall.

This could be tricky.

A rather peeved Frog

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