The baby has started talking. Well he is a toddler really I suppose. He totters about in his dungarees kicking a ball, chasing balloons, tripping over and banging his head on tables a lot. Maybe from now on I will give him his very own grown up letter – S.
Anyway he is talking, just a few words, like ‘mooo’ for a cow, ‘nose’, ‘ow!’ (when the said bumping and banging happens, he is very dramatic about it). He can also say ‘wow’, often when there’s a large rubbish truck going past or I produce strawberries from the fridge. It is all very cute really and like any parent I coo in wondrous appreciation as his vocabulary grows (even if other people can’t distinguish a moo from a shoe, or a juice from a cheese for that matter) His current favourite word is ‘toast’! He loves the stuff. The only time I am a little less charmed by this new ability to talk is at 6am. When he wakes up in the morning he stands up in his cot and shouts ‘toast!’ at the top of his lungs, he doesn’t stop until I go in and get him. He used to accept a little cuddle in mum and dad’s bed in the morning, but now it is no-nonsense, dead-on target, ‘let’s get down those stairs and get the toaster going mum’ and he will not tolerate a single moment of faff in between. If mum is not properly organised the night before with socks, pyjama bottoms, a handful of nappies at the ready, if I need to go back into my own room to pull on my slippers for instance I am greeted by a full on tantrum. And tantrums at 6am are a whole new kettle of stinking rancid fish that you don’t even want to know about. So I try to minimise the risk and have the necessary clothing/changing equipment piled up on the landing.
Then we run downstairs in the dark, and I slice the bread. He continues saying ‘toast’ until I tell him he needs to wait for the pop. Then he changes his mantra to ‘pop…pop’
P claims that I have already infiltrated little S with my English toast obsession. I have mentioned before in a previous post the Dutch crazy love of bread, and it having an almost holy place in the average Dutch diet, they wouldn’t pollute the pureness of the beloved ‘broodje’ (sandwich) by toasting the stuff.
Once the toast is ready and S is happily in his high chair munching we can relax and chat, as long as we stick mostly to a conversation using one-syllable words that contain the letter ‘O’.
Another new word that I’m not overly keen on is ‘phone’. Typical up-to-the-minute baby that he is, he grabs the phone out of my hand and uses his grubby little teeny weeny index finger to slide through all the various apps looking for something that he can accidentally buy for me. It is amazing how fast things seem to be moving along. A is 4 and a half and when she was his age and she grabbed the phone out of my hand it still had buttons to press.
Unfortunately he also likes throwing things. Yesterday he grabbed the iphone and threw it on the floor. We have a wooden floor and the impact cracked the front panel of the phone. I picked it up and bellowed in that half drill, half ox giving birth like way that P is always telling me off for. (Quick aside: In my opinion if P was a 24 hour parent like I am and didn’t get to escape to ‘work’ he would have developed his own equally annoying noise). It is a noise of utter frustration that I make instead of swearing or hitting anyone.
I am shouting “I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS!!”
I wouldn’t have reacted so severely, if it was not for the fact that this has just happened to me not even a month ago. I had been holding onto my bike with one hand, I had leaned across to pick up the potatoes I was buying at the market and the phone had fallen out of my pocket and onto the ground, where it had royally smashed. I had had to ring a whippersnapper of a young iphone fixing boy to drive over (charging me petrol money by the kilometre) to replace the glass. It cost 80 euros!
How could I be so idiotic? How could I not have bought a cover for it the first time this happened? And why did I let a toddler anywhere near the damn thing? Now I start directing my frustration at the stupid thing itself and those abominable people at Apple for making it. It is clearly a way of fleecing all of us suckers who fall for their ‘must-have’ marketing. How can it be so easy to break that a hock high teeny toddler can smash it by dropping it on a wooden floor?
This is the cycle of thought that I am trapped in for the rest of the afternoon. I stick sellotape across the screen and set about grumpily trying to get dinner ready. S totters about with his bare feet pat-patting on the wooden floor bumping his head on the dinner table. He occasionally runs into the kitchen and climbs up onto a high step to examine the vegetables I am chopping. He fingers the courgette without enthusiasm and shouts ‘toast!’