My beautiful girl.
How on earth did you get so big? You’re all long and lanky now, just like your dad. Your gorgeous skinny legs – although far too flexible – remind me of a dangly scarecrow. Not much different to the day you were born, really.
This day two years ago, we looked at you as you slept in your clear plastic bed, discussing your frog-like feet and scarecrow limbs. Love hit us like a bullet.
I just want to kiss those legs. Especially when they’re bare, running naked in the garden on a hot sunny day. You hate it when I grab you for a kiss though. You laugh, “No Mummy!”. Then you’ll give in and submit to “The Mummy Love”, letting me give you a cuddle for a split second, before batting me away to continue with your game.
You’re a fierce, independent, stubborn, cheeky, loud little spirit now.
You have tantrums. Regularly. You like food, drawing with crayons (often on the furniture), talking on the phone to your Mar Mar and splashing in the bath.
You also like “CAKE!” and “CHOC CHOC!”. This often causes problems, especially when you decide to express your heartfelt love for said treats in the middle of the vegetable aisle in Sainsburys.
But, I must admit, I love to see you devour a cheeky cupcake or chocolate button. Your excitement is on a par with mine over a glass of wine on a Friday evening.
This is you a year ago, at your 1st birthday party. You’re covered in cake after having a food fight with BB, the little girl you met through my blog. BB belongs to Northern Mum and she’s also rather partial to a spot of chocolate.
Look at you. Beautiful girl.
We’ve had a quite a year.
You were bridesmaid to Daddy and I when we got married last August. You cried during the ceremony, but then had quite a time on the bouncy castle and enjoyed clapping and cheering during the speeches. You’re a born performer and love to be part of the action.
You also rather like your own company and become engrossed in drawing pictures, sorting shapes or doing jigsaw puzzles.
You are such a girl. You brush your doll’s hair (named Euan, after your friend at the childminder’s) and paint crayon onto your eyelids, no doubt copying me doing my make-up. I caught you trying on my heels the other day, while you dangled one of my bras on your head. When I laughed, you reached up and dabbed some of my deodrant on your armpits.
You’re a happy child, now. This wasn’t really the case six months ago.
You wanted to walk, you see. But your hypermobile joints and flat feet wouldn’t let you. We were all very worried. No one knew what was wrong with you, just that something was, indeed, wrong.
I was told you wouldn’t walk without help. You clearly thought, sod that, and couldn’t be bothered to wait for your turn on the ever-long NHS waiting list. You’re yet to receive your special boots and physio treatment, but you’ve defied them all and now walk everywhere.
I’m so proud of you.
You’re unlikely to realise how deeply felt even just one spec of my love is for you, little girl. The understanding of how it often roots me to the spot, unable to move, is not something you’ll comprehend any time soon.
It burrows deep, down through my feet, twisting into the earth so that at times I have to simply stand and catch my breath, just to look at you. This love that I feel for you, it can’t be measured. It’s impossible.
But you’ll know one day, little Frog.
When you’re a mum, you’ll know.
Happy birthday my beautiful girl. I love you.