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 Ė 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 Ė 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 Ė 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 Ė awed by her own bottom. "Big poo."