Time with a child does go scarily fast. And yesterday evening, Joe and I were smacked in the face with just how grown-up our once delicate and helpless little bundle of Freya has become.
At bath-time, Joe removed Freya's sandals and after a couple of seconds a sweaty smell filled the air. Joe and I looked at each other in bafflement. "That smell must be coming from you," I told Joe. Joe and I then smelt each other’s shoes for a good few seconds before picking up one each of Freya's sandals to have a sniff. And sure enough, her pretty little sandals smelt very cheesy. "Freya has got sweaty smelly feet!” Joe said triumphantly. We both felt all gooey and mushy over our oblivious, and otherwise engaged daughter (who was busy trying to unscrew one of her cot bars), and strangely it was a very proud moment in the Field household.
There are of course other indications that our baby is growing up. Freya now has a very refined pallet, and frequently rejects food such as chips and fishfingers, in favour of olives, garlic, and feta. First thing in the morning, her bedroom is often filled with a garlicky aroma – a smell remarkably similar to that in our bedroom after Joe has been out for a few beers and a kebab. In fact, Freya mimics most of Joe’s morning routine… she gets very cross when she is taken out of her bed, she is grumpy for at least an hour after waking and refuses to speak to anyone, she barks at the GMTV presenters, and after her wash she finds Joe’s Nivea pot and, with her eyes tightly shut, pretends to apply the cream to her face in a very rough and unladylike manner.
I noticed this morning that Freya has picked up something new from Joe, and has been walking around the house with a pen and a piece of paper, and every so often stops, ponders, and then scribbles something down. She also prefers to leaf through Joe’s boring, pretentious books about post-Kantian aesthetic theory rather than look at her own lovely picture books.
Soon Joe and Freya will be up all night with their honking feet, engrossed in conversations about Theodor Adorno, while I sit on the sofa on my own and sulkily tuck into a family-sized tiramisu.
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