She wanders out to the kitchen, a look of urgency on her face.

“You take me” she directs,

“you take me to the hospital”.

“Why?” I ask.

She rushes down the hallway and I follow. She has picked up her Dorothy the Dinosaur handbag and  starts to pack it.

A plastic mobile phone, a pair of undies (important when you are still in nappies), a drink bottle and “Catty”.

It’s always serious when the Dorothy bag comes out.

So I ask her again, where we are going and she cups my face in her little hands, looks earnestly into my eyes and tells me…

“Take to hospital, Mummy”.

I am starting to worry. Perhaps she knows something that I haven’t picked up on, maybe she is sick.

“Why are we going to the hospital, bubba?” I ask.

” Because *M’s* there, I luff* him. I live with him, he make me feel so betterbetter”.

My sigh is huge.

She is not sick.

Well, she is,

just a bit.

Love sick.

*M*  - paediatrician

*luff is an Ivy - ism for love.

Let me start by saying that Noah has never seen a single five minute episode of “Thomas the Tank Engine”.

Never.

Not one DVD

and has never placed his hands on someone else’s models or tracks.

That is why I am amazed that he has told anyone who will listen (including his ride - in car ‘Rocket) that for his birthday he will be getting some “Thomas the Tankshun” trains and he will also be having a Thomas cake.

To back this unfamiliar and apparently out of the blue, idea up, yesterday he was perusing the bumper toy catalogue from Big W.

When he came to the pages with the Thomas merchandise he stopped and there he stayed for, oh, at least half an hour.

Half an hour in a toddler’s day is a long time, my friends.

He rattled (pardon the pun) on to me and the sick girl about all the different trains and the tracks and the helicopter. All of which I have absolutely no idea about.

I don’t know their names or what they are.

I am a mere mortal in the world of boy toys.

The only character I know in the whole outfit is The Fat Controller.

Heh, heh, what can I say?

I guess I  can relate.

Ahem…

Anyway, the trains…and the catalogue…

were poured over by the boy and he declared once again that those were his gift of choice for his third birthday, which is still five months away.

Soon he pottered off and I thought that I had heard the last of the “Tankshun” talk.

At morning naptime, I changed him and he was chortling on to me about how much better the Big Red Car was in comparison to the Big Red Boat when I spotted a crumpled piece of paper under his pillow.

I looked closer to discover that my sweet, Thomas obsessed, son had ripped the four pages of train  catalogue out of it’s cover and had placed his ‘precious’ securely with his bedding.

My gorgeous boy. He makes my heart so light.

Of course, we, as the parents of the obsessed will indulge him.

There’s just one thing…

I need the low down on Thomas and his friends.

Anyone got any information on the train?

Come on, spill it.

So I am not totally clueless, come November.

Noah (pretending not to hear): I love you too, Ivy! Love you too.

Ivy: You spewed, I said, you spee - you - ed!

Noah: I not pooed Ivy.

**************************************************************

2:20am Ivy: “I want to snuggle with Mummy! Iwantosnugglewithmummeeeeeee Iwantosnugglewithmumeeeeee!”

Mummy: “No, you stay in your bed.”

2:22am Ivy: “I want to snugs with you Mummy, Iwantosnugswithyooooooooooowithyooooooo

Mummy: “No, stay in your bed, Mummy’s here”.

Every two minutes until 3am: ” I want to sleep in your bed Mummy, I want to snugs with you !Iwantosnugglewithyooooooo”.

3:02 am:  Mummy relents and takes self and lobbyist to nice warm bed, out of the freezing night.

3:03am Noah: “I want to come in your bed, Mummy”. Proceeds to climb into bed.

Mummy: “No, Noah sleep in your bed”.

Noah: “No, I not“!

Get into her ribbon stash (that another chef has neglected to pack away) and pull Every. Single. Ribbon from its roll and call it ‘pasta’.

Take scrapbooking cardboard flowers (hundreds of the little suckers) from the back room, sprinkle a few into the ‘bowl’ you have aquired from the plastics cupboard and the rest (read majority) onto the floor for creative effect(an important part of being a successful chef).

Shred rediscovered tissue paper, from birthdays past, into tiny little pieces and declare them ‘lettuce’. Place a handful into the bowl and the rest can go on the floor.

Mix heartily.

Present to Mummy in the laundry.

For added effect, try to stuff some of the ribbon ‘pasta’ right to the back of her craw, until she gags.

Proceed to sing The Wiggles ‘Fruit Salad’ (yummy, yummy) song at the top of your lungs (to drown out the tears when the Mummy discovers the aftermath) and ask innocently ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ when she falls to the floor sobbing.

After pretending to feed the Mummy the concoction for a large part of the morning, proceed to fight over lengths of  ‘pasta’ that you want made into tails, because you are now horses. (Of course it is vitally important that you both have the same piece of ribbon).

In true executive chef style, throw a hissyfit when asked to clean up your ‘creative’ mess.

This is how you make “house salad”.

He comes into our room and snuggles down.

He cups my face and says… ” You kiss it better, Mummy”.

“Awwww”, I soothe, “Do you have a cold?”

He considers this for a minute, considers his surroundings and the fact that he is snuggled up in the parental bed, “No, I warm”, he answers.

********************************************************************* 

He loves The Wiggles and his PJs reflect this.

They are weird though, in that, Dorothy’s face overlaps at the buttons, essentially giving her three eyes, where the pattern is repeated.

“How many eyes does Dorothy have?” one of the big kids coo,

“Dorofee has free eyes” he replies.

“How many eyes does Noah have?” asks his father.

He squishes his stubby toddler finger in the direction of his eyes, “one, two, threefourfive…and a half”.

All bodies in and about the bed rock with laughter and mirth.

Hmmm, perhaps three eyes is not so weird after all.

At least, in Noah’s world.

He climbs onto the bed, looking for me to read him a book but then changes direction when he discovers his father is home.

I put my hands out to him but he refuses…

“No, Mummy, you not read the book, Daddy read it”.

David and I have been having a ‘heated discussion’, so this obvious favouritism erks me even more.

” Fine, Daddy can read it”, I proclaim, “we all know he is the be all and end all”.

As I get up to leave the room, making it to the doorwell, Noah pipes up and says…

“No Mummy, Daddy is not the beetle and the egg -  all”!

All my defences fall away as I double up in mirth and wonder at this innocent that is my son.

Mummy: “Are you a sexy beast”?

Noah: “I not a sixty beast. I Noah Yilliam Androo Trickensa”!

Noah loves cars.

Loves them.

He is, quite simply, a car head.

Like his father - who can identify the type of car at night by the shape of the headlights. (Scary but true).

Noah identifies each and every person by the kind of car they drive and addresses them accordingly…

He doesn’t know the type (yet) but he has named each vehicle and has matched them to their owner, with the tender loving care that only a car head can muster.

Gran’s coming? He’ll see her in “Lola” (the Corolla).

Dad’s going to work “In Roach” (Black Ford somethingsmallandbeetlelike) and he’ll see him later with keys in hand, which are really, Noah’s keys, don’t you know.

Grandma’s up for a visit and she’s here “in Silver” (a silver Toyota Avalon) Consequently, pop also has a “Silver”. (A silver Ford Falcon).

Tracey’s car - “redtruck”

Mary’s car - “busnotmummy’s”

My car’s “name’s Bus“.

His sister’s plastic means of transport? “Pink“, of course.

The name he has coined for his very own red and yellow magnificent piece of plastic vehicular pleasure is “Rocket“.

The other day he discovered that ‘Grampa’ has a motorbike (you have to say it really fast …”merterbike” - you know, like the bike itself) and it is all we have heard about ever since.

“Grampasgotameterbikegrampasgotameterbikegrampasgotameterbike”!!!!!!

When people arrive at the house, most of the kids announce their arrival by name.

Not Noah, he is excited by the arrival of their car.

When he is talking on the phone, he doesn’t farewell the receiver with just a “see you later”, or even a “see you on such and such a day”.

No.

It’s “I’ll see you later in (insert name of car here)”.

Like Pavlov’s dog.

The thought of your car has him salivating.

Yep.

My son is a carhead.

Immy: “No, don’t do that Noah, that hurts Immy.”

Noah: ” No”

Immy: “I won’t play with you if you are going to do that”.

Noah: (increasingly angrier) “NO”!

Immy: “Oh well, I will just have to…”

Noah (interjecting and pointing to Immy) : “NO!! You in time out”!!!

Why do neighbours who are way past their prime, insist on having loud night sex with their harem of  locals, just outside our bedroom window? At 11:30 pm, no less. Hasn’t anyone heard of the ‘not after 11pm sex policy’ in the boonies? And do they care?

Why do children and husbands pick long trips down in the car to discuss sewerage trucks? Why are sewerage trucks called honey wagons and why is the connector tubing on the truck clear?

Did you know that when you do a spellcheck on email, it doesn’t recognise the word blog? It keeps telling me to change it to bog. David thinks my spellcheck is trying to tell me something! Hmmph!!!

Noah (sctatching vigorously): “I have fleas. I need a bath!”

  gotfleas.mp3   for those of you who want to hear the evidence. Oh and give it a minute, he needs time to warm up!

This can’t be good. It is cracking on to 9pm. Why are they still awake?

There has been no red cordial. There has been plenty of quiet time pre - bed. We have followed the bed time routine to the letter but for the second time they have not gone straight to sleep.

9:30pm.

C’mon, already.

Go. To. Sleep.

Suddenly it’s quiet.

Are they asleep?

Creeping, creeping, shhhh, we don’t want to wake them…

What’s this?

Noah… you’re wearing a hat and sitting up with your sister, in the same bed.

Oh, she has a hat too, and some Little Golden Book reading material.

Oh and looky here, a tray, with two teacups and a teapot.

A ten o’clock teaparty!

At the wrong end of the day.

AAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!