Dear Toddler,

Stop it. Seriously. Whatever it is you’re doing right now, stop it. It’s either dangerous or you’ll break it. Thank you. Now consider this a cover-all warning for the remainder of my letter. An instruction to be heeded even when unspoken for five seconds or more: Stop. It.

This is a letter about the things you won’t be doing for much longer. The things which all the parents who have gone before tell me faithfully that I will one day miss. I do not believe them. So I shall record for posterity your fleeting activities in the world of Not-Quite-Two, and one day use this letter to prove myself right. It also feels important to document the slow, steady erosion of my sanity in case it never returns.

I find myself searching for the words to adequately describe my daily existence as your part-Sherpa, part-slave and part-fruit-dealer. There is great monotony involved in being mum to a small person. The sameness and repetition of my days are painfully dull. Yet I seem to be trapped in a constant bewildered state of busy. I move between wishing the minutes away to distress about how I will possibly get everything done.

Each moment I am not sleeping or working is dedicated to keeping you out of danger. It seems that you’ve never met a power point you didn’t want to stick your fingers in. Your depth perception is woefully inaccurate and you have a penchant for running onto roads. You dive off the change table so spectacularly that it would put the very best European soccer players to shame. At the playground you show no fear or hesitation, even when faced with a steep slide or a pit bull terrier off its leash. You really, really want to know what the inside of the oven feels like.

Time to myself has become a distant memory, as has a quiet house. You follow me into the bathroom and helpfully point to the toilet, with an inquiring, ‘Poo?’ If I lie on the couch after a big meal, you’ll jump on my tummy, intent on reminding me of the location of my bellybutton. When you want something but don’t have the words, you’ll point forcefully and emit the most audibly painful, ‘Ehhhh.’ No matter how long I spend hunched over, pushing you along on that lurid-coloured plastic bike, your response is always, ‘More? More?’

Your zeal for the task of frustrating your mother is unparalleled. You demand banana, watch me dutifully peel it and then refuse the banana with a firm shake of the head. Once the banana has been chopped up, Glad-Wrapped and put away in the fridge, you will demand it once again. The car is your absolute favourite place to be … except when it’s not and you scream like a banshee while being strapped into your seat. In the mornings I cannot coax you out of your sleeping bag, and in the evenings it’s near impossible to get you back into it.

Such are the changeable objectives and fierce determination of an eighteen-month-old.

You have driven me to the teetering, towering edge of madness time and time again … and then stopped me from jumping with a cheesy grin of reprieve. Oh, what I wouldn’t do for that toothy smile. It’s a confusing paradox, this parenting business. I find myself longing for the solitude of a workday and then when it comes, I lose hours of precious time watching videos of what you did the day before.

Even as I write about the many things I will not miss about this age, the reality of my situation sinks in. This is a fleeting moment in time. It will pass. That knowledge brings solace and sadness in equal measure. One day, along with all the things that overwhelm me, so too will go the things I cannot bear to lose.

Like the way you say ‘cluggle’ not ‘cuddle’ and how your little paw-like hand slips itself into mine when we walk down the street together. Or how you say ‘hello!’ to all animals, including ladybugs and ants and cockroaches. Or how you throw your head backwards when we’re outside on a blustery day and giggle hysterically. You literally love the feeling of the wind on your face.

It’s painful to realise that one day you won’t put your pants on your head anymore. You won’t use the remote control like it’s a telephone or do your funny half-dance, half-waddle to Michael Jackson music. A day will come when you don’t even notice Guide Dog donation boxes, let alone stop to pat them on their sandy heads and kiss their metal noses. One day you will be like everyone else in the world and wave goodbye only to people, not places that you’ve loved.

When that day comes I know I will no longer be permitted to rock you to sleep. You will have grown up and become all too aware that this world is full of more than trips to the park, a new boat for bath time and blueberries by the handful. You will learn that people can be both unkind and unjust. You will come to realise that mum and dad can’t make everything better. Sadly, there are some things beyond the power of a song, a kiss and a Mickey Mouse bandaid, and that includes the inevitable marching on of time.

Stop it. Stop growing up, please. Just stay the way you are.

Safe. Happy. And mine.

Forever,

Mum xxx