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.