A tantrum, the beginning of the end, and a sign

Make no mistake: I threw that tantrum last Friday (6 days ago). After a particularly f... sucked up night of badly interrupted sleep, Jose took Tara down for breakfast, and what does the good man do one baby breakfast later? He releases her back into my bed, where she commences climbing all across my beat up body and face in search of more boobs to latch on to. Jump up mummy, curse (again!), exit bed, exit room, slam stair gates, stomp down stairs, slam kitchen door. Howl and bawl Tara, shocked. When you've had enough, you've had enough.
A burnt toast and boiled over porridge later, Jose and Tara come down the stairs, at the back end of a lengthy father and daughter heart-to-heart about the 'eating' of booboos.
".... and Tara is a big girl now, and remember how we discussed that booboos are for babies but not for big girls, and we don't want to get mummy cross again, so booboos are for babies, but Tara is a big girl now! Big girls eat toast and sweet corn, and drink from cups..."
That's right, I tell her. Also, big girls have babies, not boobies, I add, and order her a new baby on ebay. Always one for a new toy, her mother.
Thus an enlightened, now officially big girl Tara was restored to her slightly pacified mother, and weaning commenced.

This big girl's big pushchair is a tad too big for her own small baby

It was a bit upsetting how she barely dares ask for Bubu now; a meek little question followed by a meek little question mark, no tears over a maternal 'no', followed by an immediate change of subject. Poor chicken, scared of upsetting mummy again. She used to confidently demand her rights of access to boobs up to just then, crying up a storm when met with a tentative maternal 'no'. So we've kept it up. No boobs in the daytime, and that's that. A few tears only on day one and once since, a few meek requests each day, and not a single meal of boob in the daytime (I'll keep nighttime up until daytime transition is complete) for five days now. To think that five days ago I was still completely unable to imagine it ever happening before my original top limit of her second birthday (approaching fast)!
But that's not the only change either. Coming back from Spain, Jose and I got a little too busy unpacking kilos of cheese, almonds, dates and a few clothes around bedtime, so the poor tired child asked to be taken to bed, where she was left with her blanket. Two minutes later she had fallen asleep, unassisted and all by herself. Another lucky moment to be seized and kept up, and a week late I made the time to finally separate her baby bedside cot from my bed, and stick it in one faraway* corner of 'our' room, and mine in the other.
And if that wasn't enough, I've finally found an excuse for never ever packing away any of the piles and piles of clothes that come off the washing line: They give my baby big girl, exposure to big girls' knickers. And oh yes, she's into them, literally.

Ready for knickers and potty training?

NOT if you think your bum-wear goes round your neck!

They say it's one of the signs to watch out when trying to establish when they are ready for potty training. Good job I'm always ready for some shopping, even if it's only for potties and toilet trainer seats in the early stages of a slowly developing readiness for the onset of training (there are a few more signs to look out for...)

From boob to poop. Beautiful!


*with about 60cm between them. It's a smallish room.