beckity

I got three presents for Elsie's birthday. When Elsie started at nursery, she was miserable. She cried when she was dropped off, she cried when the nursery staff put her on the ground to play, she cried when she was picked up and she was clingy and nervous at home. The first two weeks were not fun. Slowly though, slowly it improved. First I noticed the changes at home. Instead of needing to see us at all times, Elsie started toddling off to other rooms while we got on with other things. She cried less, clung less. Next the reports from the nursery staff changed. She stopped crying when they put her down to play and seemed more settled. On Elsie's birthday I went to pick her up as usual. Generally when I show up, Elsie has been put in a highchair and is watching the other children, tired after a long day, her thumb in her mouth and the other hand clutching her doudou. On her birthday for the first time, I looked into the room and saw her before she saw me. She had her doudou i...

One minute the biscuits are on the table, the empty pot lying discarded by the beaker. The next, she's scooped the biscuits into the pot, the top is on and she's shaking them like a rattle. Impressed, I congratulate her on her genius and pick her up, out of her highchair. When I set her down on the floor she sets off at quite a pace. Straight into the wall.

I cut half the mango into baby-hand sized chunks, and use the knife to push them into Elsie's bowl. 'Mango?' I ask her, as she follows me out to the dining table. She looks up expectantly, so I scoop her up, slotting her legs into her highchair holes and her arms into her long-sleeved big. She leans towards the mango, and soon has a chunk in each hand, the juice dripping off her chin and a look of content concentration as she chews. I bring the other half from the kitchen and take a bite. It's a good ripe one. For a moment the two of us share a happy quiet moment. Suddenly, Elsie stops chewing, drops one of her chunks and points her finger at my hand, and the remainder of the mango. 'Elsie', I start, 'this is Mummy's mango. It's exactly the same as yours, just not cut up. You eat yours and if you want some more later, I'll give you some.' Her mouth pouts, but she follows my pointing finger and takes a fresh chunk from her bowl. I put mine...

In Brussels shops and on the streets The people point and stare Oh Elsie, what are we to do About your crazy hair? It sticks straight up, no brush or breeze Persuade it to lie flat And you just smile out at the world Despite being laughed at It doesn't bother me at all I think it's cute as hell Your eyes and smile so beautiful A punk with no hair gel I just hope all that sniggering Does not upset your mood You're not defined by how you look That pointing is just rude Hold up your head, ignore them all Keep your happy face Be proud of it, that fuzzy crown That takes up so much space And if it starts a complex, chick We'll all be here for you With kisses, love and, if you want Some shrink therapy too

We walk past the Italian restaurant at the end of our road and the waiter putting out tables, the nice one, waves us a friendly bonjour . I check the road and thank the driver who stops to let us across, steering the pram around the various parts of machinery that the guys working on the train extension have left strewn about. As I approach the corner pub, the lady who is always either working or drinking there spots us, and comes over 'Eeeeelsie! Eeeeeelsie!' she calls. 'How are you today?' She meets Elsie's solid stare with a smile and remarks on her hair. Again. We move off and wish her a good day. She got a wave from Elsie yesterday, but my little girl doesn't seem to be in the mood today. We pass the mini supermarket and I look out for the checkout girl but don't see her. Yesterday I left Elsie with Marek to pop in for some cold beers. The shop was full and the girl was stressed. When I said hello, she looked at me and asked where the little one was...

She looked at me and smiled. 'I think you might want her to walk more than she wants to herself!' My jaw dropped and I almost let go of the baby's hands. My little one had a look of gleeful concentration on her small face and was pulling me along, tugging at my fingers as her little legs trundled on, each foot taking one wobbly step at a time. Let's think about that. Hmm. If I had a baby who would sit and play quietly with toys, wouldn't that be preferable? If I had a baby who could be put down with a book and left to turn those pages over and over, satisfied with her own company, wouldn't I just let her get on with it? If I had a baby who would take the cues from the time we turn her onto her tummy and follow her little push ups with attempts to move herself around, rather than turning onto her back and screaming, wouldn't I leave her to sort herself out on the floor? Do I like spending my time bent double, trying to stop Elsie ramming herself into shar...

Please remind me, if we ever do this whole baby thing again, that I thought Elsie was a miserable sod for most of the first eight months. Just so I'm prepared. Don't get me wrong, I love that little moaner to pieces, but she has always been, shall we say, insistent. Her personality has shone through pretty much from day one, and she has always made it clear when something is not to her liking. Loudly. The midwives in the maternity ward were openly impressed by the noise that those little lungs powered in the first few days of Elsie's life. After hours of being thrust against closed bones by drug-induced contractions, she didn't have the smoothest entry into the world. Even so, her ability to go purple and apparently stop breathing out of pure rage, became notorious. I remember physically shaking and wondering what the hell I should try next, as she woke from a nap on one of those early days and snapped back into continuous heart-breaking cry mode. I always felt she wa...