It's good to talk

They play together now, sometimes. Our younger daughter reaches out to touch the face of her big sister, who has consciously positioned herself so that this is possible. Personally, I don't really see what the object of the game is, but it produces gleeful laughter in both of them so, clearly, I encourage it. To see your children enjoying each others' company is more gratifying than any experience I can recall. Yes, even that one. But in a very different way.

This small but hugely significant development in my daughters' relationship also serves as a handy microcosm for the way in which a family is the sum of its parts. The collective's progress is dependent upon various individual achievements coming together. I concede that all this sounds a little bit communist at best, and pretentious at worst. Allow me to attempt an explanation.

Our youngest is now a whopping eight months old and her communication skills are gradually increasing. She makes more and more distinctive noises, the most common of which is along the lines of "Buhbuhbuhbuhb." Occasionally, this manifests itself as "Duhduhduhduhd," which I am happy to claim as a victory in the 'Whose Name Will She Learn First?' game. Nana won this game with our eldest by ceaselessly repeating "Nana" to her for as long as it took. I watched and learned. I have shamelessly copied Nana's tactics this time around, taking every opportunity to whisper "Daddydaddydaddydaddy" in my youngest's ear, in a manner which - taken out of context - could seem quite sinister. But, as any participant in the 'Whose Name Will She Learn First?' game will tell you, you do what it takes.

Regardless of the relative to whom she is referring, the really important implication of our daughter's verbal advance is that she is learning to make herself heard; to convey her thoughts and feelings, thus participating in the events around her rather than merely observing.

For her part, our elder daughter (rapidly approaching two and-a-half) has made a sudden leap of her own in the communication stakes. She regularly produces whole, coherent sentences. No longer do we need to seize upon every coincidental juxtaposition of two words or more in order to make this claim; our daughter now converses like an adult. But with less cynicism. And the occasional prepositional confusion. You can ask her a question and she will hear it, consider it, and then provide an informative and relevant response. Furthermore, she very often makes quite pertinent enquiries of her own. This is a double-edged sword: for every endearing "Did you have a good day's sleep, Daddy?" there's a frustrating "Is it breakfast chocolate, Daddy?"

On the whole, though, her increased ability to make her feelings known is a welcome sign of burgeoning maturity. This is further evidenced by her consideration of the prospect of sharing with her sister. Until very recently, our youngest could not even think about touching any toy in the house without being told "THAT'S MINE!" by a very possessive sister. The only variations were "THAT'S MUMMY'S!" or "THAT'S DADDY'S!" But our poor baby was never allowed to claim anything as her own. Until now. Her big sister has conceded two principles: firstly that she cannot possibly be using all of the toys at any one time, ergo some are free for the use of others; secondly, that she and her sister could conceivably play with the same thing at the same time, hence the delightful image this afternoon of daughter one entertaining daughter two in the sunny garden with the weird, purple, furry string on a stick thingy, the former spurred on by the encouraging burbling of the latter. Lovely stuff.

I would like to claim a role in this excellent development. However, my own communication skills seem to have regressed, in one involuntary but undeniable way in particular. When addressing my children I seem increasingly compelled to refer to myself in the third person. "Can you hold Daddy's hand?" "Daddy loves you very much." You get the idea. My poor daughters must be concerned that I am not in fact their Daddy, but a mere spokesman for a mysterious father they are yet to meet. I should stress that this is not the case.

I am at a loss to explain this phenomenon, but can only hope that it is one suffered by other parents the world over. Previously I had subscribed to the popular consensus that only arrogant pop stars and footballers fell prey to this affliction. But no.

Daddy does it too.

Girls behaving badly

I always secretly imagined that the so-called 'terrible twos' were a myth perpetuated by parents who simply weren't doing it properly and proposed this behavioural phenomenon as a justification for the screamy results of their shortcomings. I was incorrect. In my defence, my unspeakable arrogance was only subconscious; I didn't even realise I thought these smug thoughts until recent events caused me to stop thinking them.

Our eldest is now a couple of months past the portentous two year barrier. Until about a week ago she remained an angelic paradigm of good behaviour. Mild encouragement was always sufficient to bend her to our will. And our will was always performed with joyous enthusiasm. Disobedience never crossed her mind, because she wanted to brush her teeth/get in the bath/have her nappy changed/tidy away her toys/get dressed in sensible clothes. We thought we were safe from the epic tantrums suffered by all the bad parents, because we naively gave ourselves credit for what now appears to have been an unusually long run of good luck.

It was as if someone flicked a switch in her brain one night. She transformed that suddenly from our harmonious little co-operator to some form of demon. I have considered calling in Father Merrin. For the past few days, each of the above activities - the peaceful completion of which was previously taken for granted - has been an horrific trial of such a magnitude that Dick Cheney would have thought twice about inflicting the ordeal upon a terror suspect. After last night's bath time, I was genuinely shocked not to see our neighbours' houses go up for sale this morning; their disappointed scowls directed at us as they hammered their accusatory For Sale signs into the ground, like nails in the coffin of our community's approval of us and our child-rearing skills.

Maybe I was being a bit dramatic. This last battle had left me in such a state of despair that I was developing outrageous fears about the causes of the sudden change. A recurring theme seemed to be an aversion to getting wet, leading me to concoct theories about OCD, or even worse. We've all seen Cujo, haven't we?

My wife, although as devastated and bewildered as I by these events, was able to calm me down somewhat. At worst, we would have to come to terms with the fact that even our inimitable parenting skills were susceptible to the inevitability of a two year-old pushing the boundaries: the terrible twos. At best, this may simply be the manifestation of a mysterious, otherwise symptomless illness. Unable to adequately express her pain, discomfort or frustration at such a malady, our daughter may simply be allowing it to leak out as misbehaviour.

Or it could be a competitive reaction to the extra attention her younger sister has been receiving of late. For the last four or five days, our youngest has had an ominously high temperature. We have pumped her full of infant medicine at every safe opportunity over this period, but this has served only to keep the inferno at bay. Again, any ailment causing this has resulted in no other discernible symptoms; she has remained relatively cheerful throughout, despite managing even less sleep than usual (and consequently imposing the same sorry fate upon her parents). Neither of the doctors we have consulted has offered any suggestion for the cause. I think this is because of the global medical conspiracy which dictates that no GP may simply attribute a medical symptom to teething. Any parent will tell you that the imminent production of new gnashers can cause a fever. Any doctor will be conspicuously silent on the subject.

Nevertheless, after some 100 hours of this fever failing to go away for good, neither would the alarm my wife and I felt. So it was an immense relief today to see normal figures registering on the thermometer with more consistency. Whatever it was seems finally to have abated. Still no more teeth, mind you. Maybe the doctors are right.

Now. Half way through writing this post, I took a break to assist my wife with tonight's bathtime ordeal. It was with some trepidation that we made the long walk up the stairs to face the impending, splashy peril. And, lo and behold, it was like a bath-related dream. Our eldest's smile barely left her face as she splashed around like the last week had never happened. I looked on happily as our youngest slept peacefully in my arms and contentment washed over me. I'm welling up a bit as I write this. It does all rather lend credence to my wife's theory about our older daughter's shenanigans having been a consequence of our younger daughter's illness, and the attention it demanded.

Which is why I can now safely resume my unspeakable arrogance.