08 May 2012

The Night of the Long Knives

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

Shit - you are cute. You've just (thanks for nothing, Yaya) started shaking your head and saying 'No, no'. Gawd help us all. And despite the fact that I am sick as a dog, with long knives in my infected throat, you kept me up all night as I tried vainly not to breathe my lergy-ridden germs on you. But I still love you.

This (Tsingy Nature Reserve, Madagascar) is exactly how my throat feels.
New words (in addition to 'No'):

1. Peeping
2. Amal (animal)
3. Opa (Gerald)
4. Tatabyebye
5. Wow!
6. Hey?

You loved our (very brief) sojourn in the bush last weekend, especially watching the elephants from the deck and going on your first game drive - or 'kiddie ramble' as Ranger Brett called it. You also made up for not-so-wonderful behaviour on the drive home by being an angel the whole way there.

So that's something. I guess.

You, gazing at the ellie at our water hole.
The ellie, avoiding eye contact with you.
Be-hatted and well-behaved on the Land Rover.
You didn't blink when the lion roared. But you pointed and said, 'Woowoo'.
I know this angle makes your head look big. But it isn't in real life. Okay, it is. But so is mine. We're a shop-in-the-men's-section hat pair, you 'n me.

This weekend we also learned that you are very easily soothed, regardless of the size of or motivation for the tantrum, by an iPhone. Any iPhone. I'm proud to say that Blackberrys don't do it for you. But woe betide us all when your skills extend beyond pushing the Home button to de-activating the key lock.

And there's one final lesson I learned from you this week: you're a real little Aries.

I usually don't believe in this hunka-runka astrological tomfoolery, but Natasha - my niece - is an Aries and boy, does she know her own mind. When she was little and she was told to eat her dinner or leave the table, she'd get up and leave the table. If it was the naughty corner or peas, she'd take the naughty corner.

So, a few nights ago, we're in the bath and you're repeatedly yanking your penguin bath toy thingy off the wall and throwing it (water and all) onto the floor and bathmat. I'm getting increasingly gatvol and eventually, I say, 'Right - that's it. No more penguin for you. Say tata, penguin. Penguin's gone!' And you smile disarmingly at me, turn around and merrily wave tata to the penguin. Bloody hell. The nerve.

I love you.

Love Mom x