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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“I want book Mummy,” said Frog. Of course she did, it was bedtime. It’s to be expected.

“I want story Mummy,” said my daughter. Again, this is no big revelation. I wasn’t about to read her The Oxford English Dictionary.

“I want Willy Tuppy book Mummy,” stated my toddler, in a matter of fact tone.

Oh.

Alarm bells were ringing. I hadn’t invested in any kind of educational body book yet. She’s only two years old for crying out loud. What was this “Willy Tuppy” book she was so keen on?

“I WANT WILLY TUPPY BOOK NOW MUMMY!” Shouted my beautiful child.

Panic started to set in. I was unfamiliar with this particular story. Was it a favourite we’d read together before? Had I been so tired I’d cast aside any memory of a book about female and male genitalia? I’m sure I wasn’t that exhausted. But…

“Mummy! Listen me! Willy Tuppy book! Now!” She was getting irate.

“I tell you what,” I stalled for time. “Why don’t you go and get me this book you’re so set on.” I smugly congratulated myself on my foresight and quick thinking.

She trotted off, happy in the knowledge she was finally going to get her bedtime wish. The “Willy Tuppy book” was within reach.

And then she handed me a book with these familiar faces on the cover:

Photo credit: Ulleskelf

Of course.

To a toddler “Willy Tuppies” made perfect sense.

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“Then cow said MOO! And monkey hit cow. The end.”

I listened to my daughter reading her waterproof books in the bath this evening. She was terribly grumpy and the story she made up reflected that. Each character in her fictional world came to a sticky end. It made me smile.

Every day my daughter – who’ll be two and a half at Christmas (how did that happen?!) – reveals a little more of her vocabulary. As she strings sentences together I get to know her in a new way. This child of mine, who I thought I couldn’t love any more, just squeezes my heart that bit tighter with every new revelation.

I love her interpretations of things at the moment. I can almost see the cogs in her brain whirring as she tries to fathom basic concepts and ideas.

“Where Daddy?” She asks when we return home from the childminder’s. “Working,” She answers for me. “Daddy working. Daddy teaching in school.” This is her answer for whenever he is out of the house, even if he’s at the end of the garden. It’s like she can’t quite get her head round the fact he may leave the comfort of our living room and her side for anything other than this mysterious “school” she’s heard so much about.

She also repeats things back to us, giving us an insight into what we must sound like to her. “Mummy too busy,” She scolds her father, as he asks me to do something. “Mummy working on radio and doing writing,” She tells me, as she’s tucked up in bed at night. She’s spotted the wound of Mother Guilt and gently pours a little extra salt in it, just for my benefit.

But my favourite line from her has to be the one she uttered one Saturday morning a couple of weeks ago. After padding into our room and climbing into bed with us at 6am, she decided it was time we all got up. Her father rolled over and let off a gust of wind, making it quite clear he wasn’t getting involved. So I followed her into her bedroom, feeling my way along the walls of the house still plunged in deepest darkness.

“Bye bye night,” Said my daughter. Reaching for the light switch by her bookcase. Demanding I help her, she told me, “Time to switch off night now”.

Switching off the night. It almost makes turning a light on sound poetic.

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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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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.

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