February 06, 2006
Kneehigh to a Grasshopper
Last time she was here, you were a bundle of joy and happiness, but you weren't yet in a state to interact with people properly. Now you laugh, you giggle, you grin and guffaw. You stand up, you crawl around, you read books and open things that are shut. You know that things are there when I hide them for you, and you know how to do so many things.
I think what's occuring to me most at the moment is, using this measure of time gone, these months that your Grammy's been away, and how much you've changed, I'm struck primarily by knowing that you will continue to do so. That this tiny chunk of time represents only the smallest fraction of the joy I will gain from watching you grow.
I feel so incredibly lucky.
I don't think I realised, when we started talking about having kids, that the real repayment for the hard work, the sleepless nights and the poopy nappies would come so simply. I didn't know that my greatest joy in life would become time spent with you. The swell of pride I got tonight when you opened the letterbox on your playhouse to find the fireman I put there for you wasn't something that I had any conception (punintendedohyes) of before you were born. I'm sure you won't know so I'll tell you, but I know you won't beleive me for at least the next 30 years.
All you have to do to make me proud is smile.
And my heart breaks.
G minus 60 hours