My little one certainly seems to be growing up. I had to write about this because we (me and Georgie) have been getting all broody and looking at pictures of Willow when she was just a diddy dumpling.
I won’t lie, I’d go back in time to even during pregnancy because it had to be the best time ever, once we knew Willow was safe. Saying that, every single little step that our little whirlwind takes in her development, physically and mentally stuns me on a daily basis.
The perfect example was today. My name’s Andy Dixon, right? I grew up with some fairly obvious last name adaptations at school which I grew fond of. I used to play hockey quite regularly and ‘Dicko’ was my nickname whilst ‘Dixie’ was something I got a lot in my last job.
And so today Willow was relaying back to us her name that I’d grown to love despite the possibilities…
Me: What’s your name?
Georgie: Willow who?
Willow: Willow Dickskin!
Beautiful. And that’s gotta be my favourite thing about this kid; she’s unfiltered, unique and unstoppable in her ways. Obviously (after pissing ourselves laughing like teenagers and making her repeat it several times) we were trying to ask her to correct it, but she’s as sharp as a tack. She continued exactly the same, in a maniacal repetitive fashion just to see us cracking up.
She constantly seeks approval for jokes, actions and behaviours, which I want and don’t want in equal measure. She’s obviously far too young to be suppressed or controlled and I very much want her to be her, not formed as any kind of stereotype, persuasion or to be anything like me or her mum. I want basic manners, an ability to try and understand others before taking action or making judgements, but I want no part in the rest. She likes what she likes and I’ll be involved in whatever she wants me to be.
Unless she wants to be like either of us of course and I might um… absolutely love it? Haha, I have to be honest, being a Liverpool football fan would be a bonus as it’s practically a religion in my family. You’re either a blue or a red.
I digress. Back to her development.
We always wanted to spark her imagination and creativity; she loves drawing (all over our window and unreasonably expensive dining room table we were bought, but mainly on paper). She loves to sing (check out my Insta for her rendition of Shimmer and Shine) and we’re still trying to figure out what on Earth she’s on about singing a song about “Whoooaaa qualiteeee eggs”. Don’t ask me.
Her playing with toys is awesome. She’s got a thing for Paw Patrol and Blaze and the Monster Machines – you’ll regularly catch them having a conversation “Oh heeellp Marshall! Oh okay you comin’? Okay I feel better!”
She’s coming along nicely.
But then nappy changes when you’re all in a rush have to be as close to hell as you’ll come. She’s a bladdy free spirit and lives for the moments where the nappy comes off and she’s off like a 2.5ft nudist baring all.
You speak to her to get her to lie down for a nappy change and we’ll get the silent treatment. She’ll duck her head down to pretend she hasn’t heard you, she’ll break down in tears and my personal favourite we saw over the last couple of days was running off to the bottom of the stairs and lying down on her back…
”Willow, what’re you doing?”
”Aaaaam sleeping mah daddy”
Then when I try and be somewhat authoritarian about it, I pick her up, but she knows where she’s going so she thinks it’s her chance to run a 100m sprint in mid-air and screech like what I can only describe as a banshee.
She does what she wants and despite it putting anxiety levels at 100% when you’ve got to be somewhere, I can’t help but think, she’s gonna be a force to be reckoned with and why would I ever want to change that?