Engelbert

Right. It's been a while. Sorry. I've had a bit of an Olympics hiatus. Or writer's block. Or something. I don't want anyone to think that my delightful daughters have failed to provide any source material. Their lives, development and idiosyncrasies have been as entertaining as ever. I've just been too busy watching other people running and swimming and throwing stuff to document any of it. Let's see if I can remember any.

Our youngest now has seven teeth. It bothers my obsessive compulsive side ever so slightly that this is an uneven number, but I find it possible to forgive her on account of her asymmetrical grin being so massively endearing. As she draws within sight of her first birthday, her critical awareness of herself and her surroundings - or the first signs of healthy cynicism - are becoming apparent. Yet she continues to produce this grin with very pleasing regularity. Things which amuse her sufficiently include: waving, clapping, me saying "Ping!", her mother being within eyeshot, her sister laughing, her sister running away from her, hiding behind the curtains, being found behind the curtains.

She is also now rather good at standing up and even shuffling about on two feet as long as she has something to lean on. Or during the moments when she is no longer leaning on something, but has not yet realised this. Fortunately, she is also adept at falling over safely. Most of the time.

You may by now have inferred that our eldest is turning out to be a most excellent big sister. The two of them are developing an interdependent relationship which is almost always beneficial. Our eldest takes great pride and joy in enticing her little sister into a game of 'Run/Crawl Up and Down the Room as Quickly as Possible, Ideally Whilst Laughing.' Sometimes I join in, whether they invite me to or not. I must admit that it's surprisingly good fun although, if I'm honest, they need to work on the name.

When one laughs, the other laughs. When one cries, the other cries, often after enquiring sympathetically about the cause of distress. Even during these times of mutual woe, I am compelled to glow with paternal pride, my big, soppy heart bursting through my cliche of a chest.

When our firstborn displays maturity like this, I struggle to remember that she is not yet two-and-a-half years old. It doesn't help that she is the size of a four year-old. Nor that I have no real understanding of the age at which these developments normally take place. But I'm pretty sure most people are a bit older before they start calling their dad by his first name. She doesn't fully understand that this is what she is doing, but that doesn't stop it being funny and unsettling in equal measure.

Now. The arbitrary insistence on anonymity which I have always maintained on this blog is going to make this difficult to explain. Let's assume that my name is Engelbert. (It's not. Or is it? Ahhh...) My daughter has arrived at the conclusion that Engelbert is a word which must precede a request, for example: "Engelbert, can I have some ketchup please, Daddy?" She really is that polite, and also that keen on ketchup: just two more sources of my immense pride in her.

Other incidents and significances have occurred. I could, for example, mention the fact that my recent, restful week off work coincided perfectly with everyone having tonsillitis, or that my outstanding wife has recently gone into craft overdrive, creating a road mat, some cuddly robots and - only this evening - an excellent and inadvertently Cyndi Lauper-esque doll, to name but a few.

I could mention these and other things, but I must break myself back in gently from my Olympics hiatus. I can't even think of a funny joke to end with, so I'll just abruptly stop.

Pride update.

As my daughter's age approaches the eight month mark, the list of her achievements and abilities continues to grow at an impressive rate. She now has four teeth, which seem to have emerged in no particular order. The symmetry I naively expected has failed to transpire, but this has had no effect on the efficient use she makes of her gnashers as she munches away on whichever concoction my wife and I subject them to. Not that much of it touches the sides, mind you, such is the voracity of her appetite. Root vegetables seem to be a common feature of her favourite meals, which I think indicates a certain cultured maturity in her taste.

Decision making seems to play in increasing role in other aspects of her life. Like any child, she is developing a strong sense of what she doesn't like, and how to express this. At high volume. What I find more admirable - and more positive - is her ability to discern what she does like. Holding her in front of her toy collection is all the invitation she needs to make a carefully considered selection. The repetition in her choices suggests that they are good ones. As a man often plagued by indecision I sincerely hope that this quality of my daughter's stays with her.

Her mobility is also improving. Although yet to fully master crawling, she does occasionally struggle forwards on her knees and elbows, even if she doesn't fully understand how she has achieved this. I am confident that, with each such happy accident, she is programming the instinct which will soon take over.

Crawling may, however, soon be rendered unnecessary. Her legs have been capable of supporting her weight since she was about five minutes old. She has now progressed to the point where a slight balance deficit is the only thing between her and independent perambulation. Thus, when you hold her hands, she walks eagerly in whichever direction she's facing, eating up the ground like Usain Bolt. And nothing makes her happier.

Convenient, then, that she has recently mastered a useful means of expressing this happiness: clapping. I say mastered. Maybe that's a bit generous. Picture a weightlifter who has put too much flour on his hands. The thing he or she would do to remedy such a situation is what my daughter does. Frequently. I should clarify that she is yet to attempt weightlifting. Although she is very strong.

We still haven't identified the language, but she can definitely talk. One of her preferred statements is "Dadadadadadadadada". My wife's interpretation of this differs from my own. While she sees it as a meaningless, albeit entertaining phonetic, I see no problem in isolating any two of its syllables to leave the word every father yearns to hear from his child. Yes folks: my daughter calls me Dada. Sometimes I'm even there when she does it.

All of these excellent capabilities, and yet she still almost never sleeps. At least not for any significant length of time. All I want for Christmas is eight solid hours. And my wife, as a light sleeper, and the one with all the milk (and, if I'm honest, our daughter's first choice of nocturnal visitor), suffers hugely more than I do. Just imagine how much amazing stuff our daughter could do after a good night's sleep.