my plus one

I was reading a book last night. The title's not important; one of the things you'll find out about me is that my side of the bed is generally about 3 books deep with disposable airport fiction. The book, though, was talking about the way that differences between things are sometimes more important than the things themselves.

It said things like "the difference between one and two is one, but it's more than that", which, I'm sure you'll agree, doesn't make any damn kind of sense at all. It went on, though, to talk about how the difference between one and two is the difference between one and "many". Then it started to make sense. That having one of something is pretty easy, you don't have to divide your attention, you don't have to mediate arguments about whose cup is the blue cup, or whose goldfish had died*.

*(when I was a very young man, your uncle Dave and I each had goldfish. They looked identical. Whenever one died, it was my goldfish that had died, according to your uncle Dave. This scarred me for life)

So now we're gearing up for an occasion in which there will be "many". Certainly, not "many" as in the many that your grandparents had to deal with (at various times up to four children in one place), which entail a whole gamut of logistical requirements, but two is going to be a very interesting time.

Now I'm off, to see if I can fit a baby seat into the back of the Subaru.

Love you.

Pumpkindiary 2: The pumpkening

There was always a burning question in the back of my mind, starting this. What I would say about it, when the time came, when the question got asked, if we had more than one.

If I'd be in a position of having to defend the conversation.

Now that the original pumpkin is five, and seems to have assumed the moniker of "monkey" more than any other, then perhaps I can make a determination. An executive decision, then, that this can be a story for two people, about two people.

That when I call you, pumpkin, "pumpkin", that I'm talking to you, nestled tight inside my beloved, and that it's got nothing whatsoever to do with the other pumpkin, who used to be pumpkin but isn't anymore because he's monkey. Look, I know, this is getting confusing, and you're only a tiny batch of cells right now, but perhaps, as with your brother, if I explain it in terms of Batman, you'll understand. It's like Batman Beyond, you know, where Bruce Wayne realises that he's too old to be Batman anymore and hangs up his batsuit and then...

Ok maybe I'm overthinking this.

All I'm saying is, pumpkin (2) (the pumpkening), is that it's a delight to be told of your existence, and that I'm terribly excited that you're coming, and that I can't wait to meet you. That you're going to be loved and cherished and welcomed and snuggled and raspberried. That you're going to have an older brother called Bram, and a cousin called Sam (and another who's about to arrive, I'll let you know as soon as I know). That I'm already 100% certain what your name is, although I'm pretty sure I'll have to fight tooth and nail for it. That you have, waiting (although they don't know it yet) a huge gaggle of aunts, grandmothers, uncles, grandfathers, great versions thereof, step, half, once removed etc etc etc (you get the picture).

Love you,

Dad.

Rolling Stones

This, my wonderful, amazing, constantly surprising son, is a picture of us. Of you, and me, doing one of the things that I always hoped we could do together, and something that I didn't think we'd be able to do until much, much later in your life.

There's a great deal of argument, among the intellectuals and academics, about the way that children form their personality, about how they become who they are, and I am always interested to watch how you're becoming you.

I don't like rollercoasters. They cause me significant distress, not because of the g-forces or changes in direction, but because I'm not in charge of those changes in direction and cannot adequately anticipate them. When I was young, (and, truth be told, much older than you are now), this dislike manifested primarily in screaming. Loudly and incessantly.

You, however, due to a combination of the aforementioned nature and nurture, appear to be completely, totally, absolutely and utterly fearless.

As is evidenced by this photograph. This is you, age four, on, although by world standards fairly tame, a full sized adult style roller coaster. Point of fact it's the oldest continuously operating roller coaster in the world, built in 1912, and just about everybody's been on it.

Our travelling companions suggested that I was deluded in thinking that you'd be able to cope with a full sized roller coaster. They told me to put you on the merry go round, they suggested it was madness to take you on board, but you, punkin, my sweet, amazing, fearless monkey, you were adamant that you wanted to go. And so we did.

And as soon as we got off,

You wanted to go again.

And it made me love you more.

If that was ever possible.

Love you,