Sunday, 27 September 2009
What are They Feeding You?
Don't despair-the title of this blog is nothing to do with preaching, Jamie Oliver style, about the fat in chickens and why bendy carrots are better than straight ones.
No, its a blog about a question said jokingly to Chrissy whenever a random person working in a shop asks how old she is.
You see, Chrissy is two and a half. She talks like a two and a half year old, and acts like one-the tantrums in my house are legendary, and the naughty step has been worn out. But she is much taller than her peers, and is already wearing age 3 or 4 clothes. Jeans for her own age group divorced her ankles months back, and jumpers look more like T-shirts.
Such are the amount of inches she's acquired that when I took her out for a walk in her new stripey tights, the walk meant they became stripey ankle socks within 5 minutes, something I didn't notice until I picked her up thinking she was tired.
She's a great fan of her height though.
In contrast, her brother is quite small, and has only just learnt to pull himself up to stand holding onto something for dear life. He is so pleased with this new skill he practises it constantly. However this drives Chrissy mental, as when we are having a hug on the sofa, or I'm reading a Night Garden book for the umpteenth time that day, Edward will suddenly pop up, all toothy and dribbly and try and yank her, her toy or her book from her. Meaning that she has now decided she is so annoyed that, when Mummy is not looking, she'll give him a swift kick with her bigger than two years old foot.
She is a hooligan. And gobby too.
I bought her some new winter boots, they're very cute, pink with butterflys, and I must admit when weighing up these versus some miniature Uggs, I did wonder whether the soft Uggs would be a better idea. But her Dad preferred the leather sturdy boots (he still doesn't understand why every year I buy Uggs when within 5 minutes of wear they have holes in the sides).
So now, instead of walking with socks or bare footed round the house, she prefers stomping her authority in these hobnail boots. All she needs is a skin head and a leather jacket and she could join a post punk movement of footie hooligans.
I took them off her feet the other day when she went to have her nap, but when I went back up she'd put them on again.
I have now had to put them up on the wardrobe, or in my room when she's not going out.
Another bonus (in her eyes) of her height is she can reach stuff she's not meant to- chocolate biscuits, felt pens, all manner of my nice bath and make up stuff.
I told her she couldn't have anymore Chocolate fingers yesterday, and pushed them away from her hand. Then she came running into the conservatory with a handful, face covered in chocolate, and handed one or two to Edward like an outlaw Milky Bar Kid.
So, when people ask how old she is, and I say she's two, they always act surprised, and ask what we're feeding her. Or why she's so tall. Or if they don't ask, alot of the time they look disdainfully at her, thinking she's alot older, for throwing a strop.
I can't win.
If anyone wants me I'll be having the millionth clothes clear out this year-I'm off age 4 shopping Monday. No wonder I'm still wearing fashions from 2 years ago!