Linnea is four years eight months old now, apparently. I find it hard to believe, myself. And
what is she doing?
She’s definitely learning to be more conciliating in her interpersonal relationships – children who cry or shout at her are very likely to get their way unless she’s totally confident that they will still be her friend tomorrow. She clearly offers compromises and gets upset when they aren’t listened to.
Her favourite protest at home is “You are a Gnoring me!” and her favourite insult is “Now you are nuis-less,” (also “Don’t be so nuis-less.”) She’s toying with “You’re a stinky poo,” too, but that’s for fun rather than to express unhappiness or frustration.
She’s more and more interested in learning to read and write but still not interested in being Taught. Similar with maths – she’s adding, subtracting and multiplying single-digit numbers all the time, but doesn’t like us initiating a session of it, though we’re expected to drop everything and answer “what is seven nines?” at her lightest whim.
I gave her window crayons recently and she drew some lovely stuff on the bay window. I must brave the cold without my gloves and photograph it. It’s very bold and confident; there’s a house and a snail and a sun and some waves.
She’d like to learn to knit but doesn’t like how fiddly and difficult it is. She has short needles and lovely mixed-colours yarn, thanks to Nana, but hasn’t stuck it out as far as knitting a whole stitch yet.
Her grasp of anatomy surprises us sometimes – she told us over Christmas that her ribs are the bones which protect her heart and lungs because her heart and lungs are soft and squashy and bones are hard. Presumably that was in a book or on telly but I didn’t know she knew it.
I said “I like spending time with you, Linnea,” today, and she responded, thoughtfully, “But not when you’re cross.”
True enough. Don’t like much when I’m cross.