If I was a child development expert, I would say that Flea is exceptionally imaginative.

She’s a bit weird, basically. In a good way.

I’ve already written about the time Flea decided she was a boy called Aiden. FOR NINE MONTHS. Yes, I had almost a year of not being able to call my child by her own name. She would cry if I forgot and called her a ‘good girl’. People in the small town where we live would regularly ask after my ‘little boy’.

Lately, Flea’s mostly been pretending to be a dog.

This weekend, though, we’ve had a change of heart. “Mummy, I am a boy in a red hat and a green t-shirt and I am called Alfie,” she declared over the breakfast table.


Throughout the morning I would get regular reminders, “Mummy, will you remember which boy I am?”


However, because I am an evil parent, I obviously forgot this vital information and over the day I slipped several times, referring to Flea as Flea.

Like a trooper, Flea didn’t say much, but as I closed her bedroom door after putting her to bed that night, I noticed she had taken matters into her own hands, rearranging the letters on her door:


I think it's going to be a long year.