September 13, 2005
I'm not sure what to tell you today, punkin, except to tell you about birthday season.
I'm not sure how we managed to have a baby born in May, when it seems like everyone else in this family was born in September or October, but that only means that people will have time to save up for your present.
It's your mum's birthday tomorrow, her first birthday as a mum. I don't want this whole thing to turn into a catalogue of firsts, but speaking as one who's had the pleasure, I have to tell you that getting a present from your son is pretty exciting. Of course, knowing that she reads this, I can't talk about what we got her, but I'm sure you'll agree that our long drive last night (even including the bit where your dad looked around and realised that we were in the country, and swore and turned around), was very much worthwhile. I won't mention any names here, for fear of giving the game away, but you know who you are.
Being that the birthday in question comes smack dab in the middle of bad reality TV season, we will be celebrating by sitting at home watching television. This might not sound like such an exciting time, but let me assure you that an evening of pizza, fizzy wine and Rockstar is tailor made for good times at casa Peeny-Deeny, the place you choose to lay your head on the rare occasions that you deign to favour us with some silence.
Speaking of which, your mother tells me that you're sleeping like an angel at the moment.
I'm looking after you again tonight. It's interesting that, after being thrust into the position of looking after you by myself, I've begun to really look forward to our time together. I have begun to feel more capable of looking after you, and I'm surprised at the pride that I feel in knowing what you need (primarily, being your pushover dad, this appears to be playing with you all the time and not putting you in your cot because you cry if I do that).