A few days ago something extraordinary happened. I blame it on the spring and the two sun rays that managed to make it through the thick clouds all the way to Scotland. My cynical armour melted and my corny sore sipped thorugh and flooded the blank page in front of me.
Warning: this post comes with a lot of sugar… Have some mint tea before reading.
Looking at your scrunched up angry face a few minutes after you were born and thinking “You got it from me mister.”
Finding 1001 words to describe how fascinating your poo is. And bringing it up at dinner parties. And chuckling at everyone else’s dismay. I can’t help it. I tried. No, I really did try. Now off to join Baby Poo Addicts Anonymous.
Chirping “Good morning sweetheart!” after you’ve been implementing your Matricide by Lack of Sleep strategy for the last 336 nights.
Picking up that spoon you threw on the floor again, and again and again and again and again…
Burning up as you pull down my top and start squeezing my boobs with a loud “Maaaaaaaa” in front of 5,398,549 other people in the doctor’s waiting room. What the heck, I lost all my dignity when I was giving birth, right?
Binning that nutritious organic lunch I slaved over for the last 3 hours. Then watching you pinch a cold slice of pizza off my plate. Yum.
Wiping my face, after you spat in it. Yes, and this is how I found out that penicillin stings like hell if it gets in your eyes.
Repeating “Lalalalalala” while clapping my hands 1,385 times a day. Because you find it so funneeeeeeeeeee.
Letting you chew on my Chanel lipstick (before you gasp, it has the lid on). It was a gift that I cherished. You got to my makeup bag first.
Tickling you so much you get hiccups.
Beaming with pride when you have decorated the back wall in the kitchen with tomato sauce. Jackson Pollock style.
Falling asleep to the soothing sounds of your snores, gurgles and babbles.
Discovering that you have inherited my “can’t stop myself from devouring any grapes in my vicinity” gene.
Instructions for Peanut:
I’m writing this for you to read when I am old, fragile and in need of your help with mixing some alcoholic beverages to keep me jolly and chopping some wood to keep me warm.
Now there is some wisdom I would like to share with you. It goes like this:
Love is You:
Undusting my false teeth
Mixing G&T without me having to ask you.
Combing through my garden that you call a hell’s heath
Knocking on my door and shouting “Peekaboo.”
And reading out loud to me, like I used to do with you.
Doing my dirty dishes.
Rubbing my old feet and finding my keys, gloves and hats.
Remembering Christmases and birthdays, sending me best wishes.
Finding a better home. No, not for me, the 100 stray cats.
Giving me a cuddle when I’m sad and unhappy.
(psst, but one thing I won’t ask you to do is to change my nappy)
Lots of love
P.S. Shoo, fetch me that G&T!