My daughter has changed. Again.

It happens every few weeks or so. I notice a new knowing look in her eye, a new turn of phrase or a new talent in the drawing or jigsaw puzzle department. This current change has been all about the sass.

I’m living with a two year old who would give a 15 year old with a huge rebellious streak a run for her money. There have been moments during the past week where I’ve literally been left open mouthed at the way Frog has spoken to me or her dad. We’ve had to wander out of the room scratching our heads, asking each other, “Did she really just say that?”

Take tonight, for example. Already angry that her order for “MUMMY dry hair!!!” had been ignored, Frog was on a roll. As the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine tried to coax her into her Christmas pyjamas, our little dictator lay on the floor and banged her fists hard into the carpet.

“NOOOO Daddy! I want BUTTERFLY ones! I want butterfly ones NOW!!!” She screamed.

When she was given the chosen PJs (sometimes you have to pick your battles) she stopped shouting, calmly put on her trousers then stood up, raised her hand in the direction of her father and demanded, “Don’t look at me Daddy. DO NOT LOOK AT ME!!!”

This was nothing compared to the Tuesday drama though. The Tuesday drama involved a swimming lesson and a car seat, neither of which my little diva wanted to include in her planned afternoon.

As I opened the car door and attempted to lift Frog into her seat, she turned to me and calmly ordered me to “Put down Mummy. Put ME down!” I huffed something about, “Do it yourself then” and stood back.

It was then that my fiercely independent child swung round to face me and shouted – in the middle of a busy car park – “I NOT BABY ANYMORE MUMMY!”

Quite.

Can someone please tell me there’s a rule somewhere that states unruly, bossy toddlers turn into angelic teenagers? Please? Anyone?

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Yeah, that.

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My wonky toddling almost-2 year old scrambled down from the sofa to walk three steps to the table. In her hands she carried a pot with cubes of cheese. So intent on this cheese was she, that she failed to pay proper attention to her steps.

This is particularly important when you’re a child of the hypermobile variety and steps are still an issue.

Everything slowed down, as she tripped and her head came crashing down, down, down…. to land smack on the corner of the table.

Cue huge screams and desperate hitting of the forehead, as if she’d been stung by a large bee.

No bee, but an ever-increasing swelling the size of a large egg. Angry and red, turning purple.

On calling the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine and announcing, “We need to go to A and E. Now,” I was met with exactly what one doesn’t do in a crisis. Especially not when a screaming child is involved.

NLM: What’s up?

Me: She’s hit her head, we need to go to hospital.

NLM: Is she OK?

(On seeing her) NLM: *wails* *cries* *sobs actual tears* Oh NO! NOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOO! What should we do? I don’t know what to do? Oh God. GOD! Is she going to die? Is that her brains? What should we do? I don’t know what to do! NOOOOOO! *sob*

Fifteen minutes later, safely esconced behind the wheel of the car, the NLM was laughing. “I’m not very good in a crisis am I?”

I didn’t like to say anything.

(The egg swelling, 3 hours later and home from hospital.)

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So the cute kids bakeware items sent to me by Dunelm Mill have remained untouched until today.

And, the thing is, it’s too hot to use them for what they are designed for. At least, it was today. Who wants to be stuck in a boiling kitchen when it’s shady and cool in the garden?

So we cheated. And I love cheating. Because cheating means no flour on the floor, no congealed egg on the worktop and no sweating over a hot stove.

Cheating means letting your toddler loose with a baking tray, some dried macaroni, a wooden spoon, spatula and sillicone muffin cups and tray. And sitting back to relax while she whips you up some “cake” in the comfort of the garden.

And who knew empty muffin cases made such great stacking cases? I love that Frog is now at an age where she’s beginning to explore her imagination.

I can just sit back and watch while she gets involved in her own game, until she inevitably decides she’s had enough and wants to “PAINT!”…

***

Disclosure: These products were sent to me for the purpose of this review.

I’m linking up this post to see it, snap it, love it at Dear Beautiful Boy who’s asking for our moments in time this week. This afternoon will forever be remembered as the one Frog first played an imaginary game of cooking.

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But not this week.

Because yesterday I filmed a little video. And after all the posts I’ve written about my non-toddling toddler’s struggle with walking and hypermobility, the frustrations and questioning looks, the worry and negativity… I wanted to put something positive here.

This is what determination looks like, in the form of an almost 23 month old little girl with wonky feet and uber flexible limbs. This is what not giving up looks like.

And I’m so bloody proud.

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Despite her inability to confidently walk unaided (although we’re getting there, step by step) my girl is feisty, chatty, independent and extremely bossy. She certainly isn’t the tiny, helpless little bundle we brought home from the hospital.

Which means – we think – that she’s ready for a bed.

The whole “moving from cot to bed” is yet another milestone that parents can become obsessed by. On the scale of riveting conversations, the discussion about my daughter’s bed readiness ranks pretty low (about a 1 or 2 I guess) and isn’t something I’d expect anyone other than myself to give two hoots about.

But, as with all these milestones, the ones who are immersed in it are the ones who become obsessed by it. And boy, have I become obsessed.

I’m excited to try out her new Dunelm Sleepy Owl bedding. She already loves the matching cushion, taking it everywhere with her, including to wake up her grumpy dad on a Saturday morning…

I’m excited at the thought of being able to sit next to her in her bed, while we read a bedtime story. I’m excited at the lack of back pain as I constantly bend down, reaching over the bars to extricate my toddler from her nightime prison.

But I’m also rather scared.

What if she falls out of bed? Will a rail stop her rolling? Is a rail necessary? What kind of stair gate should we get? What if she decides to throw a party for all her teddies at 3am and won’t go back to bed? What if she comes into our room at 5am on a Saturday morning and gives up sleeping altogether?

All of these questions are, I’m sure, desperately unoriginal ones. But they remain at the forefront of my mind, as I postpone removing the side of the cot for yet another day.

Aware of my self-postponement tactics, I’ve now set a date and actually written it in my diay (I know – pathetic, right?). The Day Of The Cot To Bed will be next Saturday.

Which gives me a week to fathom an answer to all of the above questions. In the meantime, have you got any advice?

***

Disclosure: I’m on the Dunelm parent blogger panel. The Sleepy Owl bedding and cushion were one of the samples I received for the purpose of review, which will be posted once the cot prison is finally discarded.

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My one remaining grandmother is not known as Grandma. Neither is she Granny, Nanny or Nan. She is Nana, pronounced Nan-arr (as if she was christened by a pirate).

Nana

Nana’s husband, my grandfather, was called Dada. He was also christened by pirates, so his name was pronounced Dad-arr.

These are the names used by all their grandchildren. I’m not entirely sure where the pirate theme originated from, but I’m pretty certain it had something to do with my eldest cousin Louise, who probably struggled to say Grandma. There’s a similarity between Grandma and Nana, if you say it slowly, in toddler fashion.

In an equally non-traditional way, my other grandmother also shunned Grandma as a name. She had a bobby dazzler of a title: Suntan.

Yep. That is what we actually called her. Without a hint of humour. Her name was Suntan and that was that. No questions asked.

Again, I think this has something to do with my elder cousins. I know they referred to her as Tantan, which in my 2 year old state of mind I probably found quite boring. So, in our house, Tantan was just plain old Suntan. It was a given. She even signed her birthday cards and letter, “Love from, Suntan”.

My 22 month old daughter is currently in the naming phase. She is lucky enough to have all four grandparents to christen. All four grandparents, whom she idolises. Her obsession over each grandparent rivals my own obsession with Gary Barlow. It borders on the unhealthy.

She’s cracked the names of my own parents. This happened with a certain finality over the last couple of days.

My mum, her Grandma, is Mar Mar. Dragging my mother around the house, Frog shouted Mar Mar at the top of her lungs.

The excitement was almost too much to bear when she was met on the road by the newly arrived Mar Mar. Frog’s legs waved around in all their hypermobile glory, like a plasticine man gone wild. She shrieked with elation “MAR MAR! MAR MAR!” before settling into a quivering state of excited shock.

Mar Mar it is then.

She has also newly named her grandfather this weekend. He is the Mark Owen to Mar Mar’s Gary Barlow. Another object of complete obsession. And from now on, he will be known not as Grandad, Grandpa or Pops.

Nope, his name is Dandaz.

Dandaz

Frog’s northern grandparents remain Grandma and Grandad, unless she decides on something different. I’m almost hoping she really mixes it up with something like Sparkly Pants and Icecream Head or an equally bizarre alternative. Or maybe she’ll just stick with Grandma and Grandad, who knows.

So, for now, the grandparents in our life remain as Mar Mar, Dandaz, Grandma and Grandad.

I’m intrigued though, is this normal? Coming from a history of non-traditionally named grandparents, it seems normal enough to me. But what are the grandparents in your life known as?

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