There is jumping off couches onto backs of unsuspecting parents (and sometimes grandparents). Demanding of quite specific foods; 'bubby want cold strawberries'. And grand statements such as 'I don't like strawberries anymore!'.
Days are met with unbridled energy, running legs and banging hands, frighteningly sudden shrieks and literal climbing of walls (waterspouts). Those same days are closed with protests, cajoling, endless books, your favourite blanket and of course milk. And collapsing into our beds completely exhausted.
You pry my eyes open in the morning and tell me 'get out of bed now'. I desperately negotiate this with you and somedays we stay in the big bed until 7.30. Such a decent and magical time.
You have your own bed in your own bedroom. You sit in your windowsill and read, watching yourself in the mirror. Performing shows already.
Nursery rhymes are sung with different words - Rocka my baby, up a tree; baa baa black sheep any wool. One for mamaster (that's you - points to daddy) one for dame (that's you mummy), and one for little boy lives down lane; wheels ona bus go roar roar ROAR...
Such magic it is to watch you. Such torture it is to see you grow and know there is no going back. No baby anymore. And yet such pride to see such growth.
You melt my heart with declarations of 'I love you' and 'you are my best friend'.
Daycare weeks, swimming lessons, and toilet training are all on the horizon. As I think about packing daycare lunch boxes I feel like we have fast forwarded into a future that seemed so distant for so long. And now I want to hold you tight. If only you would stay still...