The Daphne Tree

It occurred to me last night, as I turned away to giggle silently, watching Daphne lick her DVDs, that my attitude as a mum has changed significantly. When she was a tiny newborn, my approach was mostly "I'm terrified, how do I keep this alive?". Every little thing was a threat to her little delicate life, and the world entirely revolved around her. Doctor on speed dial. Phrases to describe our life in the first year were: "Better to be safe than sorry" "You can't be too careful" "Why risk anything" "Fear the worst" Into the second year, we chilled out slightly, she could escape the cat (although actively chose to engage in combat) and didn't appear to be allergic to anything. She'd had a few falls, a few illnesses, and bounced back, sometimes literally. Attitudes changed to: "She has to learn for herself" "A bit of dirt won't hurt" " Let's see how she is in the morning...

Well. The husband returned from work today, and from my lank hair knew I hadn't showered. What a disgusting cowbag, right? That's the look I got anyway. In my brain I wanted to go schizophrenic psycho mentalballs on him. On waking I found cat sick all over the living room. Cleared it up, washed hands a lot. They are chapped from this. Daphne woke up and promptly threw a tantrum about dropping a dummy. One of her two. A proper tantrum. I held her at the window to watch the snow, then we had to stay there for ages while she pointed out every damn thing she could see. Breakfast. Milk all over the carpet. Tried the naughty step. Tantrum. Hit head during tantrum. Crying fit. Hug. Retching as crying fit got out of control. Tiny sick. Daphne demanded a banana which then mysteriously became smeared over every flipping thing in the universe. Notice my lack of swearing as she now copies every blinking thing. I wash up, actually for the second time this morning. Daphne comes an...