Big World. Little Me.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it's as if Little A and I occupy two separate worlds. I, an infinite universe of dirty bowls, tea bags and mugs, faded bed sheets, and kitchen table clutter. My little flatmate, a social whirl of tea dances, dressing rag dollies, conspiratorial chats with blue ted, and exercising - walking - the bedroom door stop (it so happens it's the shape of a dog).

Little A's world is rich in its simplicities. Mine, by comparison, is scant in its complexities. I wish I could swap the ironing, the folding clothes, the potty emptying for a minute's immersion in my daughter's magical interpretation of life. Just a moment to see things through her eyes, unfettered, unpolluted, pure.

So in a vicarious bid to slip on Little A's shoes and view things as she does, I thought it a jolly good idea to start immortalising all those words, phrases, concepts that define her world before memory loses its grasp, and those quirky toddler gems are lost in the dust forever.

Welcome to Big World.Little Me. 

...an anthology, of sorts, of Little A'isms.

Moonix.
Back in the day, Little A was able to pronounce the word music with assured clarity and diction. Since then 'music' has morphed into 'moonix'. Now Little A adores dancing to moonix, whether it's running around and around our living room, or shaking her hands to the radical beats - dad rock - thumping in the family car. She is very partial to Mumford & Sons, Talking Heads and occasionally, a touch of Kraftwerk. She especially loves 'rocket moonix' (rocking music). The other afternoon in the kitchen, Little A taught me the 'see saw dance',' the folding arms dance', and 'the dizzy dance' to the sounds of chill out moonix wafting from the radio. Another DJ in the making perhaps?

Bobby-in-a-mow. 
We were once a family of three. Now we are a family of four. I don't know the exact moment Bobby-in-a-mow graced us with his presence - I'm assuming he's a he - I certainly can't recall the formal invitation to take up residency in our home. But alas, Bobby-in-a-mow is here to stay, I can't actually see him, although I'm given daily assurances that he's floating about on thin air. As you've probably guessed, he's Little A's alibi and esteemed playmate. And when Bobby-in-a-mow isn't invisible, he's teddy, or bunny, or monkey, or dolly. Bobby-in-a-mow can often be located watching TV or dancing to moonix (see above). Once I asked Little A, "who's Bobby-in-a-mow?" To which she curtly replied, "he's just Bobby-in-a-mow mummy." Well that put me straight. Oh, and then there is the Bobby-in-a-mow song ....

Version 1.
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Bobby. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby.
Bobby-in-a-mow.

Version 2. (mummy's remix)
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Bobby-in-a-mow.
Wibble. Wobble. Bibble. Bobble.
Bobby-in-a-mow.

Tootat.
I always forget that I have a tattoo on the top left of my shoulder. It's of Pegasus, the flying horse, but it's a little blurred these days, faded like my jeans. The tattoo is a reminder of my student days, a throw back to care free living, and copious bowls of vegetable pasta. I can't quite believe it, but smudged Pegasus is nearly twenty one years old. Is it that long since I sat my finals? Anyway, inquisitive as she is, Little A has a habit of reminding me of it, usually when we are bathing together. "Mummy, mummy, look, it's your tootat," as a stubby finger prods firmly against my body art. "It's a tattoo, Little A, a T.A.T.T.O.O.O.O." "Tootat mummy," she always responds, knowingly saying it on purpose. I never bother re-correcting her. Secretly, I pray she never learns to pronounce tattoo correctly; 'tootat' is so unbearably charming.

Normal Work.
"Are you going to normal work today Daddy, or are you going to work on an aeroplane?"

Little A isn't exactly clear about the concept of work. All she understands is that Daddy leaves in the morning, suited, black bag slung over his shoulder, and returns just in time for one last 'night, night'. Younger Dad travels abroad quite frequently with his job. So Little A differentiates between 'normal work' and 'working on an aeroplane'. On our last visit to the doctors it all got a little confusing...    

Doctor "So what does your daddy do?"
Little A "He goes to normal work."
Doctor "What does he do there?"
Little A "No, no, today he's working on an aeroplane."
Doctor "Is he a pilot?" (Younger Dad is most definitely not a pilot)
Little A "Yes." (I'm not sure she knows what a pilot is)
Doctor "Does he take you flying in an aeroplane?"
Little A "No, cos, cos, cos I need... a passport."

...I didn't see that punch line coming. But of course she's right, she'll certainly need a pass port if she wants to visit Daddy's sky borne office in the clouds. I didn't enlighten the Doctor to Younger Dad's actual profession, we left him thinking my husband's Biggles.  

Last Time.
At the moment Little A is going through a phase where she wants to do everything on her 'woone' and most times, there has to be a 'last time' for every activity. Only, last time doesn't actually mean last time, it means  the first of many... And this is all my fault. For the sake of an easier life, planting a solid rod in my vertebra, I have indulged Little A in her requests of 'again' by repeatedly telling her, "now this is the last time Little A." Only to return again and again. This very, very bad habit, on my part, is at its most prevalent at bedtimes with Little A's persistent demands of 'last gentle back', 'last cuddle', 'last water'... Last has regretfully lost all it meaning. When will I ever learn?

What are your little darlings' favourite 'isms?