Look, I'm telling you now, before you judge me too harshly on what I'm about to reveal, that apart from taking lots of photos I'm not an overly gushing parent. I find lots of baby and toddler stuff that I must do with my two-year-old quite unbelievably dull; about as stimulating as watching repeats of the weather forecast in the dark.

These first two years that everyone said would go so quickly for much of it, the minutes have passed like hours. Not that the slowness has made my memories any clearer, as I still have no idea where I put, say, the lock of hair from her first haircut that I said I would keep forever, or if her first word really was Abu, followed by Hamza, or was it merely cat? She definitely said both but when? I'll have to check my Facebook updates. Or the log at GCHQ.

So it is in the context of this lack of precise gushingness that I must make this confession. My daughter has recently become obsessed with the size of her poos and they are all big, according to her, whether they look to me like they came out of a greedy Jack Russell or a sickly church mouse. "Big poo, Mummy," she says, in awed tones awed by her own bottom. "Big poo."
Big Poo

Worth reading.