I know that I was in my mind prepared for the day when you would take your first steps. I know that I had thought to myself "it will be just like now, only a bit different". I knew that your birthday would represent a change for us, but I don't think I realised that the change would be so sudden and so large. Certainly, you're not about to sprint out the door and run a marathon, but it's nonetheless a drastic shift in the way you see the world.
I have to type fast, because one of your new favourite games is to run up and slam the lid of my laptop closed, in most cases so far narrowly avoiding my fingers, but landing a telling blow on enough occasions to make me wary of where you are while I'm punkining.
It's Saturday afternoon now, the day before Mother's Day. Soon our friends are coming over for dinner, and the house is quiet. Well, it's quiet except for you banging your toys around, but it's that joyful symphony that I've come to accept as background noise (whilst simultaneously being incredibly grateful for the 2 hour reprieve that is your afternoon nap).
We're going up the hill tomorrow to see your great grandmother, I spoke to her earlier today, asking what I should bring, she said "just you remember to bring that boy"...
She loves you, punkin,
and so do I.