distilled essence of twoness

She’s in the back seat of the car. We’re coming home from dinner at the Moores’.

C (sweetly): Mummy?

R (doting): Yes, my heart?

C: NO, MUMMY! MUMMY, NO! NO MUMMY!

R: I see.

C: NO MUMMY!

R: Okay then.

C: NO MUMMY!

J: I believe you’re in the poo.

R: So I hear.

C: NO MUMMY!

Short, expectant pause.

C (sweetly): Mummy?

R: Oh no, you don’t.

Right now her hobbies include: Eating Mummy’s Food Then Spitting It Out Into Mummy’s Hand, Pulling The Tail Of The Incredibly Patient Cat and Jumping Up And Down On Mummy’s Head. Fortunately she’s still the most ridiculously beautiful thing I’ve laid eyes on, like a circus-raised sidekick with her golden hair and full red lips and wide star-sapphire eyes.

I wonder how parents who aren’t crazy in love with the little beasts survive the appalling twos?

Bebe, somewhat less enamoured, has moved into the closet.

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