The Whirlwind that is My Littlest Girl

It seems like ever since she could move, we’ve had to keep our full two eyes on my littlest girl. I know that's to be expected when you become parents, and with my little girl we were, but the need was less (chalk and cheese is a phrase that certainly typifies the two sisters). This need to be vigilant came as early as when she learned to roll over and would always end up at the tip of her mat, although it was stepped up as she began to crawl. Our trepidation only increased when, not long after, she began to pull herself up and inch sideways along the couch, and we were sure that it wouldn't be long before she could walk (not to be). From here, the moment we turned our head she was out of sight; in some cupboard, under the computer desk, on top of the printer – anywhere.

This girl could climb before she could walk (I have a video of her racing up a ladder and down a slide in a play centre to prove it); and her version of play can often be the stuff of nightmares. We have a wooden triangular climbing frame, which she was able to easily pull herself over by the time she was one year old, quicker than her then three-year-old sister! This is partly because of how timid my little girl is, but my littlest girl is a different kettle of fish altogether; each of the terrible twosome providing their own unique problems. The elder member is a whiny, principled stubborn little girl who demands our constant attention as she wants us to play the little games she’s created, while the younger member is far more independent although demands our attention in a very different way: to stop her jumping into a fire or out of a window. OK, that last statement is a bit of an exaggeration; although you never know what she’d do if given the opportunity.

Eventually, of course, she did walk. At the beginning of her toddling life, though, it was quite the rare occurrence; her being much quicker, and able to reek more havoc, on all fours (unlike her sister, who had never really crawled and would forever be exploring on two feet). She’d stumble about a little, but when there was a goal to be reached, she’d drop quicker than a foot soldier under intense gunfire. Then, if we’re not 100% on the ball, she’d be gone; and in the maze that was our previous abode, it could be a job to track her down. There was one straight hall and several doors to the left and the right, so the first question to ask had been where exactly is she? The kitchen? My office? The heating cupboard? The bathroom? Then had she climbed into the washing machine or the dryer? Was she under the bar table I used for a work desk? Had she ended up in the darkness of the closet, or climbed into the bath? Walking could be advantageous for the little rascal too, in that having a higher reach she was more easily able to get onto work desks, pick some ornaments off the fireplace, get her fingers more easily into my food or grab a cup full of juice to pour over herself. Then, when one of her favourite TV shows were on, she would pull herself up onto the table in no time, giving her prime access to poke at the characters and shake the box.

She manages to strike the perfect balance between being completely lovable and an absolute terror. Where her big sister wouldn’t dream of drawing on anything but a piece of paper or a white board (except one occasion where a ring of ink magically appeared on her new bedroom wall once we’d moved house), everything is seen as a canvas for the monster. Books, tables, toy kitchen, bed, the floor; they’re all fair game (although she hasn’t yet tried on the walls), but then she looks up and gives a little giggle, making it almost impossible to be too angry. There are her mucky hands, the result of any from a variety of treats, which force us to clean the windows on the patio doors almost daily; which if we leave open, she’d be at the bottom of the garden in no time. This is by no means the tip of the iceberg: give her a Fruit Shoot or Sippy cup and she’ll drink it; but when she’s done, we’ll be wiping up juice from somewhere (and it can be a complete disaster if we’re not fully concentrated on her when she’s in her car seat). Similarly, she won’t just put a yogurt down when she’s done with it, instead its squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until we get it out of her hand; and the amount we find stuck to her clothes will have us believing the container is akin to the bottomless handbag Hermione Grainger has in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Speaking of magic, how she gets herself in certain spots is nothing short of miraculous. I’ll find her balancing on her tiptoes at the edge of her toy kitchen, putting items in the toy microwave. She’ll get herself into what looks like a paper-thin gap between my office desk and chair, or I’ll find her walking across her soft-play equipment in a way that reminds me of a tightrope walker at the circus (although the drop isn’t quite so big). She’d tip over her plastic ball pond or teddy-tub using a strength that seems impossible; whatever happens, a mess is ensuing. One thing that can be guaranteed, though, is that by the time we've spent a few hours in her company, we will be exhausted.

By Calum Dewsbury