Bingo knows what “daddy” means.

She gleefully points to her friends’ fathers and shouts to them, “Daddy!”

Any guy carrying a kid on his shoulders: “Daddy!”

The stock photography guy on the air conditioner box (lying relaxed and, presumably, cool with his stock photography wife and kid): “Daddy!”

She’s even taken two of her friend’s fathers on as her own.  When either of them is around, it isn’t Henry’s daddy or Olivia’s daddy* that we’re talking about: it’s just daddy.  “Daddy push swing!  Silly daddy!”  Inevitably, this has led to uncomfortable public announcements such as, “Daddy at Olivia’s house.  Daddy go home.  Bye bye daddy!”

I have to admit: the unrestrained** enthusiasm for daddies made me a little nervous when it first came up.  “Oh no!”, I thought to myself.  “Bingo knows that she doesn’t have a daddy, and wants one!  What if she resents us?  What if she goes on a desperate and misguided search for father figures later in life?  What if the anti-gay conservative populace hears about this?!”

Then I paused (for the split second that parenting allows any pause to last) and remembered to breathe.

Do you know what else Bingo really wants?  She wants a dog.  She loves Henry’s dogs as much as she loves Henry’s daddy.  The highlight of her short life so far has been getting to hold one of those dog’s leashes on a short walk down the street.  She waves to every dog on the street.  She tells anybody who will listen that Grandma is bringing her a dog for her birthday.

But Grandma is not getting Bingo a dog, unless Grandma wants to be disowned.  Our house is a dog-free house, and will likely remain that way.  Bingo will grow up with a bunch of cats and whatever creatures might live in our walls, but no other furry friends.  And Bingo will be okay.

So, if anybody tells me that Bingo needs a daddy (Bingo included), I’ll explain that all all families are different.  That different people and things fit into our hearts and homes: moms, dads, cats, dogs, budgies, aunts, uncles, grandparents, siblings, friends, entire villages.  I’ll explain that not having any of those things doesn’t mean that you’re missing them.  And I’ll explain that at the end of the day the only daddy in our house is still going to be the guy on the air conditioning box.

*Not her friends actual names, but the names of pretty much every two year old we meet.

**Really though, what is restrained when it comes to toddler?

Fake it ’til you make it. 

There are times when I don’t feel grown up enough to be a parent.  When I feel like my brain is rushing to catch up to the life that I’ve created for it. That feeling was there when we left the hospital with a baby, it’s there every time somebody introduces me as Bingo’s mom, and it’s there when I look around my house- every room scattered with toys- and think, “It looks like a kid lives here.”

I feel like I’m faking it. 

But then my feverish baby calls for me over the monitor: “Mummy!”  And I take her temperature, and give her medicine, and worry a little but not too much. This is the fifteenth fever, after all, not the first. I sit rocking with her in the dark, one of her small fever hot hands curled around my collar, and I don’t feel like I’m faking it anymore. 

How can I, really? Knowing that, to her, Sea and I are everything. We’re not pretend parents, we’re not unsure parents, we’re not people pretending to be adults. We’re just her parents: the only ones she’s got.  To her, we are enough.  

Bingo is asleep again. She breathes deeply in my arms, but still moves fitfully: the fever isn’t gone yet. So I keep rocking her. And in this dark room, in this moment, I feel it too: we are enough.  


Two weeks later, I’m willing to call it: Bingo is weaned.

My last post on breastfeeding reinforced for me just how done I was.  I was done being kicked in the face every time she nursed, I was done with the constant latching/unlatching, I was done with the whiny cries for “MAAAALK”, I was just done.

So we weaned her.

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On a regular basis I find myself completely shocked by how quickly Bingo is growing and changing.  As I try to shove her foot into a suddenly-too-small shoe, as she climbs down a short set of stairs, as she casually says “octopus” as if it’s no big deal, my breath catches and I find myself wondering, “When did that happen?”

And then the moment passes.  We hand the too small shoes onto friends, she climbs down longer flights of stairs, octopus gets added to her daily vocabulary, and I forget when it was new.

All of this watching a person learn and grow is wonderful, and miraculous, and exactly how things are supposed to be.  It also means that old things are forgotten and left behind: that silly way she would wiggle across the floor replaced by a proper crawl, that crawl replaced by the inelegant thudding of her steps.  As the days of babyhood disappear and toddlerhood whirls through our house in a mess of strewn washcloths, spilled food, uncontained giggles, and full body hugs, I’m acutely aware of how quickly toddler quirks come and go.  Right now the thing that’s changing the fastest is her language.  It isn’t just “octopus”: new words are appearing every day.  As those words come, they replace the babbles, gestures, and toddler vocabulary that came before them.  I want to see what comes next, of course, but I don’t want to forget those old things either.  For the sake of recordkeeping, here are some of the toddlerisms I want to remember the most:

  • Before Bingo could say “phone”, she would say “hello?” instead, holding her hand up to her ear.
  • A couple of months ago, she realized that Sea and I have names other than mummy/mommy.  She now uses mummy/mommy and our actual names interchangeably.  She does this in a particular nagging tone that makes me wonder how Sea and I sound when we talk to each other.
  • If I ask her, “Do you want to walk or do you want me to carry you?” she always replies “Carryyou!”
  • “Ketchup” is “kepuch”.
  • “Open” is “apoot!”
  • She calls letters (written words, letter magnets, the alphabet song) “ABs” and points them out with great excitement whenever she sees them.
  • She identifies colours correctly most of the time now.  Before she could, every colour was purple.  Every number greater than one is two.
  • She pronounces the hard c sound as a t.  “Come!” is “tum!” and “okay” is “otay”.  She’ll hold a favourite toy or stuffed animal close (often after intentionally throwing it) and ask, “Otay?  Otttaaay?”

There are more of these toddlerisms, I’m sure of it—ones that I’m already forgetting.  These are just some of the ones that I want to hold on to, and this post is my way of tucking them away for the future.  When Bingo speaks only in sentences full of clear words, I hope that I’ll be able to read this post and let her strange, perfect toddler language echo clearly in my mind.

For those of you who have/had small children, any favourite toddlerisms to share?

Thoughts on travelling with a toddler.

I think most parents would agree that toddlers are inherently free range creatures, who do best in the wide open spaces of parks or playgroups.  (Though a church basement crowded with small plastic furniture, dolls with matted hair, and some rickety trains might not seem wide open to you, to a toddler it’s a vast expanse.  Perspective.)  I know that it takes Bingo, at least, all of three hours and a rainy afternoon to get distinctly squirrelly.  Coop her up for a full day and you will suffer full out toddler wrath.  Given this common knowledge, I think that we can accept an airplane as one of the worst places to bring a small child.  A chinaware store would be better.  Or a silent meditation retreat.  Or a judgmental in-law’s living room.  Really, anywhere.

Even knowing this, a few weeks ago we boarded a transatlantic flight.  One week ago, we did it again.  In total, we spent more than 16 hours on an airplane and another 8 + in transit.  Our journey included trains, planes, buses and cars.  Now that all of our jetlag has passed, I feel equipped to offer some notes and tips on travelling with toddler.

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