Redster: Five and a quarter
Cutester: Two

Not only am I the mother of a five-year-old who finally learnt to ride her bike unaided (without stabilisers. I was her stabiliser. The last time she nearly hit the pavement I grabbed her and accidentally punched her in the eye. I am a rubbish stabiliser. She’s been managing on her own since.)

Not only am I the mother of a five-year-old who has lost her first tooth (and plays the Tooth Fairy game in the full knowledge that it’s mum and dad who leave the money, as I overheard her tell the lodger, so my fears of deception are allayed.)

Yes, I am also the mother of an only-just-two-year-old who is.. wait for it… dry!

This is a specialist parental term not related to alcohol but to the wearing of Big Girl Pants and not getting them wet, or not very often. I’m sorry to say I’ve been talking about not much else for over a week now. I can’t believe she’s done it. I stayed in for a whole weekend with her, alternately bursting into applause and mopping up wee, and it wasn’t looking good. By the middle of the following week she was so competent that she was getting through entire days without an accident. OK, there was one during Obama’s inauguration speech, but heck, I thought that was fair enough, plus it gives me excellent material for the wedding (I’m starting to collect anecdotes now. Maybe that should be money…).

So – being dry paves the way to nursery, as the one I like doesn’t do nappies. After half-term she’ll be doing three mornings a week. Then she’ll go to school, around the world, university, around the world, and get married, so really, my work is done.

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