Over the last 40 months since sharing my life with this little girl I have come across all manner of items, objects and belongings in places I never expected.
Take the other evening as an example. After I tucked her into bed and tiptoed towards the door, there wedged between the wall and our poorly fitted laminated floor boards was a crafting sticker and a little badge saying ‘smile’.
By Milly’s Door was a tiny green button and as I climbed into bed that night I found two dollies tucked up with me, dummies in place.
There have however, been less sweet things that I have come across. Unfortunately, there has been more than one occasion with palm outstretched, instead of receiving a small toy to hold, or snack to try, I have been handed bogies. Never a good thing. Strangely, retrieval of bogies when she was a babe-in-arms was a personal mission statement. When did it change?
The less glamorous have been the numerous Sylvanian Families or dolls or books or child snack bars or crayola pens that I have pulled out of my bag in a meeting. At work. Or other equally unsuitable environments.
I have found all manner of half eaten foodstuffs in the lounge *cringe*, an apple with 3 tiny mouthfuls chewed away. An animal biscuit I shoved in my bag pocket, as the choo choo train arrived at the platform, which I then discovered a month later, crushed into crumbs so small it had infiltrated the bag lining.
My own knicker drawer has become infested with tiny Hello Kitty equivalents. Just how do they get there?! My bras get used as helmets (as teeny as the cup size may be!). Or post shower I hunt around only to find it being worn by my little 3 year old who prances up and down the hallway like a pantomime actress in hysterics shouting “bobes” at the top of her voice. Is there no sacred space or item that is just mine anymore?
Talking of space. I never thought I’d find myself wedged in-between the fridge door trying to quietly snaffle a chocolate square, or opening a packet of crisps in the front seat of the car painstakingly slowly so as not to be heard. My 3 year old now has the hearing of a hawk. I inadvertently trained that skill by these antics. “What’s that?!” she’ll declare as the crisp packet finally gives way. “What you eating?” she’ll ask as I try to nonchalantly enter the lounge with cheeks full, hamster style. So far, the answer “this is mama’s food/drink-its for adult teeth” has worked fine. But I know my days are numbered.
Probably the most terrifying thing I’ve had to find is the little 3 year old.
A Less Successful Hiding Place
She has given me that out of body experience two times, too many. Once in a DIY shop (she was hidden behind a shower door), once in a playgroup (she was playing merrily in-between two sofas). Oh, and there was that time she hid REALLY well in our own home that I had to question whether I had actually birthed a child as she was nowhere to be seen (she had taken out a box in her shelving unit and hidden in its space). She has my skills in this department. I once hid so well that after an hour my parents had to walk through the house offering a chocolate bribe if I were to reveal myself.