More Things: Another Stream of Consciousness

Stick boat

I've completely lost track of what day it is.

Does anybody else ever worry about being in hospital, being asked simple questions by the doctors and not knowing any of the answers - not because of a head injury but because their brain's too full of CBeebies trivia to figure out anything else? I could know what the date is or I could know which episode of Hey Duggee was on this morning - I CAN'T DO BOTH! And the date has never inspired Matilda to build a nest.

Not that that's what I came on here to say.

* * *

Let's get the icky thing out of the way first: remember how Matilda and I had hand, foot and mouth disease in November? I was warned that our nails might peel off about a month afterwards. Which hers did. Mine have just started peeling off now. Three months later. THREE MONTHS LATER. Although, luckily, only three of them and only on my feet - it's so horrible to look at, I'm not sure how I would have coped with it happening on my hands. *shudders*

(I don't believe in jinxes but if I wake up tomorrow with peeling fingernails...)

* * *

On a less medical note: February is a time of birthdays for us. Friends, relatives and several of the toddlers in our lives are turning a year older at the moment, and it's been making me think about Matilda's birthday.

Which is in April. My teeny tiny baby will be two in April.

This is the bit where I'm supposed to say "It doesn't seem possible!" Actually, so many of Matilda's friends are two now - and, at the risk of sounding all Smug Mum, she's so surefooted and articulate - that I don't really think of her as a one year old anymore. One year olds stumble around and make indecipherable noises, right? Well, that's not her.

But I'm making our annual photo book at the moment and looking at photos of Matilda from this time last year. And that - that - seems impossible. That she was taking her first steps just over a year ago; that she was still more or less bald; that she only said a handful of words; that she napped regularly (and at home!); that she still wore (ridiculously ill-fitting) sleepsuits to bed; that she was bright orange after every tomato-based meal; that she was only just starting to scribble with crayons; that she still played with those toys and read those books (the ones which have now been stowed in the attic); that we were still nervous when she climbed on the furniture; that she still needed us to join her on the slide.

The changes in her are so gradual and I'm with her so much of the time that I don't really notice them happening; comparing the Matilda now to the Matilda of a year ago is really bringing it home to me how fast she's both learning and growing.

* * *

As for me, Smidge (accidentally) pointed out to me that I'll be forty next year.

I seem to be okay with this.

I was very much okay with turning thirty. I was ready to put my self-conscious twenties behind me; I was looking forward to starting my thirties.

My forties...? So far... nothing.

We'll see how I'm feeling nearer the time.

I feel like there should be a project in turning forty, though. Any ideas?

* * *

One more immediate plan is to bake a cake without help from a toddler. It's something I used to love doing but something which now never seems important enough for me to bother with when I get a few hours to myself.

Next month, I'm going to make it a priority.

* * *

Yesterday, however, I did not. Yesterday I had six hours to myself - SIX HOURS!!! IMAGINE!!! - and I divided them neatly into three hours of cleaning the things I never usually bother with and three hours of sitting by our sunniest window, reading a book, surrounded by cats.

Three of those hours were lovely.

* * *

What's going on with you?

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