You are six months and a bit. You are my Monkey, my Strumpet, My Favourite Baby.
The first time I held you, I told you you’d been here before. And there’s an old soul shining out of your bright blue-grey-silver eyes.
On a somewhat related note, I’m sorry for thinking that milk-blister made you look like a tiny version of Nanny McPhee for your first few days. I take it back. And I promise that wasn’t the reason I cried a lot.
I cried because you are beautiful. And because I’ve loved you forever, and I recognised your face from my dreams.
I cried because you have elbows.
I really can’t remember my life before you. And your last two weeks of baking really were a different kind of forever.
But you’re here now. We’re here. And your Dad still has all his hair. You have his eyes and my mouth. Make of that what you will.
You look just like you.
Your favourite thing to do is pull my hair. And dance. Sometimes at the same time. I still love you.
You like pears. And shrieking. You seem to prefer me without my glasses on. And if you’re pretending to like country music because it makes me happy, keep doing it. Humour me, I’m your mother.
Right now, your spirit animals seem to be giraffes and sheep. Your Dad is still working on the penguin thing. Humour him, he’s your father.
You don’t like squash. Or socks.
You eat books. Your favourite is Sheep In A Jeep.
You like to turn things upside down. Keep doing that.
And I’ll keep prying my hair from your amazing little hands. Hands which aren’t very far from your groovy little elbows.
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