. . . don’t know yet, can’t even possibly begin to comprehend, the way I feel about you. I tell you a hundred times a day how much I love you, you are irresistible to kiss and cuddle, those plump little cheeks and perfect round tummy are made for squeezing. You are funny and sweet, noisy and curious, you are perfect to me.
I can’t really watch the news these days, I can’t bear the horror stories of children abused, starved, terrorised. I can’t watch the brilliant Breaking Bad without wishing with every ounce of love I have that drugs never become a part of your world. A few weeks ago on the tube, I imagined what I would do if anyone bumped into your pushchair and upset you; worse, what if someone tried to take you, to hurt you? I felt a rage burn inside of me like I’d never felt before, I felt almost sick with anger and it was all in my own head.
Right now you are bouncing in your door jumper as I write, shrieking in delight, kicking your chubby legs as hard as you can and smiling at me every now and then. At mealtimes your expressions are priceless, when you fall asleep on me it is bliss. There are tough, sleepless times, tiring times, tearful times, but all the time I never forget how lucky we are that you are here.