Phoebe's got to the stage where she is talking and talking and talking. She is talking so much. Arguably, she's talking too much. No, I'm kidding. It's incredible. She says stuff to me and mummy and all we can do is look at each other in mild shell shock. They're things you probably think are pretty tame, but we don't have a clue where she picked them up.
E.g. I'm walking toward the supermarket with Phoebe on my shoulders when, all of a sudden, I get a tap on my forehead followed by the words, "oooooph, looks a bit busy, my daddy."
She's only just turned 2, and all I can do is nod out loud while my mind is going "whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat! The kids two and she's smarter than me. I mean i didn't even notice it was busy. I didn't ascertain that bit of knowledge at all and yet my kid did." I'm probably biased, but I'm waiting for the government to knock on our door and tell me my kid can't live a normal life and that she is closer aligned to the likes of Da Vinci and Einstein than she is to me and her mummy.
But then I'll get dragged back down to earth again because she struggles with one word. The word Play-doh. Oh the embarrassment.
So, to start from the beginning, Phoebe Isla learned the word for Playdoh on Christmas Day. Christmas means presents and for Phoebe that means toys, loads of toys, too many toys. For me it means socks, books and a hamper, but for Phoebe it means toys. More specifically it meant Playdoh. Man, that kid goes nuts for Playdoh. Of course, she got other stuff too like a Princess Anna from Frozen, and a Queen Elsa from frozen, and a load of bath toys in the form of Frozen characters (such as Elsa, Anna, Christoph, Sven, Olaf and Monster), and a remote-controlled Olaf from Frozen, oh and a Baby Princess Anna from Frozen, and some Peppa Pig pyjamas (someone was even kind enough to buy me some Daddy Pig pyjamas too) and puzzles and scuttle bugs and pretty much everything else you can find on the Argos shelves... (Getting to live Christmas through her bright blue eyes was the best present I could have asked for.)
Anyway, there is absolutely no doubt which is her favourite toy, and that award goes to her Playdoh. She loves it. She loves Playdoh more than I love her, and I'm really quite fond of our little offspring. God, she loves it. The first thing she does in the morning is run down stairs shouting I want to play with the Playdoh, I want to play with the Playdoh or I love Playdoh or please can i play with my Playdoh, please my daddy. And this doesn't stop all day. She says it while brushing her teeth, while getting dressed and even while we are doing are weekly shop, Playdoh, Playdoh. Playdoh.
The problem is, Phoebe can't pronounce it properly. So we're in Lidl doing our weekly shop and she's there saying, "please, daddy, I want to play with my paedo".
Of all the possible ways to pronounce something wrong, and we're left with Paedo. Our little girl's favourite thing in the whole wide world is her paedo. Have you no mercy, universe. The worst thing is, running out of Lidl with her under my arm is the worst thing I can do... so is sssssshhhhh-ing her... so we just have sit there and soak it up with a smile, which rather hard to do when you have a complexion like mine, which, in case you don't know, is like letting a child draw on your white walls with scarlet lipstick. Paedo. Really, God, really?!
Luckily, most of the other words Phoebe has picked up are cute, such as:
Slippees (means slippers)
Tuddle (means cuddle)
Fide (means slide)
My daddy ("my" I love that)
Teddy are you (Teddy, where are you?)
Noggit (means yoghurt)
Dark na nights ( means night time)
Cancer (means cracker, which is nice)
Ni-ni (means Aunty Leona)
Uncohl (means Uncle Oli)
and Dorge (means Godfather George)
In response to this, I have also noticed myself saying the weirdest things to her. For example, only yesterday, I caught myself tutting at Phoebe and saying no! Phoebe! Don't eat your nappy. Why do I even have to say that to you. It's your nappy.
It's incredible, this parenthood thing. It's the most incredible thing I've got to see, got to feel. Half of me and half of mummy are in this tiny, gorgeous human; this human that is so polite, so well-mannered, so cheeky, so fearless, so brave, so helpful and caring. She is the greatest thing in the world. The way she toddles into our bedroom, or runs to us shouting tuddle, tuddle, tuddle, it's amazing. The way she loves playing hide n' seek, and helping mummy tidy the house (before she trashes it again) the way she asks for a cuppa tea please in her impression of Dick Van Dyke doing an impression of the English accent, the same accent she adopts when saying a bit more please.
I wish I could give voice to how much I love that little girl, how much we love her, but I can't. Words fall flat. Not just mine either, because I doubt any lyricist would be able to find words that mimic the beats of my heart, not Shakespeare or Dickens or Orwell or Austen. None of them could, because there are no words for this level of love. Not one. Not even the word love comes close.
Anyhoo, I gotta go as there's loads and loads of paedo that needs picking up off the floor. Parenting. Urgh.