(This post was inspired by one of my very favourite bloggers, Rachel at Make A Long Story Short. Every year on Mother's Day she writes a letter to the future versions of her children and this year she asked her readers to join in. I thought it would be rude not to. If you like beautiful, hilarious and honest writing, I'd urge you to check out her blog - it's basically everything that I would love Knittenden to be.)
This is our second Mother's Day. I don't really remember the first one too well because we were still in the midst of that hazy feed-nappy-45-minute-nap-panic-repeat Groundhog Day thing. But this one I won't forget so easily. Partly because of the way you so sweetly refused to relinquish my card when your Dad instructed you to give it to me, so we had to prise it from your fingertips. And partly because you bought me a 9-in-1 steam cleaner as a gift, but that's another story.
So where are we, then? Well, you're mainly high up somewhere, balanced precariously, and I'm mainly terrified about it. But you're a 16-months-old firecracker with ants in your pants. You're dynamite, ready to explode into laughter or tears at any given moment. Only you know which. You're an unrelentingly fearless thrill-seeker who always wants to go higher and higher and higher, faster and faster and faster. And your face lights up as if you've discovered the meaning of life whenever you do. And curiosity? Well I've never known anything like it.
I try so hard to stand back and give you as much space as I can to let you be as independent as you want to be. Every day involves a huge internal struggle with
my paranoid urges to wrap you up in cotton wool and then roll you in bubble wrap. But you're always happier when you're just left to get on with being you. Sometimes we both come unstuck with this strategy, though, and our days can seem like a riot of trapped fingers, grazed noses, annoyed bystanders and hot tears on stripy jumpers. But here's the thing: whatever happens it never scares you or deters you from trying again. You never give up. You're absolutely nothing like me in any of these respects and, to be honest, I am in awe of you. Your energy is infectious and I reckon that being around you inspires me to be a little bit braver.
But you're as sweet as you are feisty, you know. You point blank refuse to hold anyone's hand or dole out affection on demand, but that just makes the unexpected hugs and kisses that come out of nowhere all the more precious. Oh, but I'd hug you all day if you ever let me. In the meantime I'll happily read you 'Barry The Fish With Fingers' ad nauseum and join in with all the games of tickle chase that you so cheekily instigate. Then I'll grin at those cassette-tape-smooth curls that shake while you laugh at me and wish that time could stand still, just for a little while.
With love (and a sparklingly clean floor),