Pootle

The Very Small Boy’s very small personality is really starting to blossom these days. Now that he is more mobile, there is nothing he loves better than to amble about the obscure corners of the house; squeezing himself behind plants, opening cupboards, pulling things off shelves and throwing them boisterously behind him as he goes. He’s also recently discovered pointing, and it’s as fulfilling for the rest of us to be able to start to understand him as it is for him to finally be able to communicate his needs. He loves nothing better than to share a glass of juice with his Big Sister, pointing to it and fussing until I give in and let him have some (and leading me to hide her drinks out of sight of him to spare his little teeth).

We decided to spend the long weekend with Nanny and Grandpa in Kingscourt last weekend. They only live an hour and a half away, and The Small Girl’s ten year old cousin, whom she absolutely adores, lives just down the road from them, so the two girls usually go off to play together and DH and I get to spend some quality time with her Very Small Brother.

The Very Small Boy always requires a short period of adjustment when reintroduced to his grandparents after some time away (the Irish call this “making strange”, which is an expression I love both for its complete meaninglessness and for its perfect encapsulation of that state of nervous clinginess that babies suffer on meeting someone new). After ten minutes or so of Making Strange, the Very Small Boy remembered that Nanny and Grandpa were, in fact, well-intentioned relations, and pulled himself together sufficiently to embark on a thorough exploration of their house.

Impatiently awaiting the arrival of her cousin, the Small Girl watched her Very Small Brother.
“Ooh, he’s investigatin’”, she said, watching him potter amiably about, armed with a pencil case and a remote control he’d discovered on his travels.
“Yes, he’s pootling about”, I remarked.
“Mummy, you said poo!” (the Small Girl currently has an unfortunate preoccupation with poo.)
“No sausage, I said “pootle”. Baby Pie’s pootling about; he’s having a pootle”.
“Pootle!” she repeated, liking the sound of the word. “Let’s call him “Pootle!””.
“OK then” I agreed, thinking it did actually kind of suit him.

“Come on then, Pootle”, the Small Girl called as she held out a hand for the Very Small Boy; then, hand-in-hand, they wandered off together to squeeze themselves behind the pot plant for a game of hide and seek.