Too long, too bust, too lazy

My boy. Soon you will not be the center of out world. Soon you will be sharing the spotlight, competing for attention, leading the way. To be honest, I have no idea how I could love another as I love you, but your uncle Leon assures me it is true. Your brother will arrive and I will find the space in my heart for him as well.

I look forward to seeing how you will react. I would love for you to show Oliver what you have learned so far. Judging by your reaction to any other child with the temerity to play with your toys, or attempt to join in with your sport, I fear this will not be how it plays out.

These two years have passed so quickly, with so much to do and so many things to learn. I promised myself that I would dedicate myself to my family, and so far I have only half fulfilled my promise. I work too much, but no more than others. However, I feel that we get on well and you do not feel that I am too often away. We have breakfast, lunch and dinner together, we play in the evenings; and bath and bed time are my domains. You have plenty of opportunities to ignore my attempts at discipline, to get angry at me for saying "NO", to refuse the simplest of my requests. And in return, I get to see you grow, to see you learn, to see you smile. 

To be a father is hard. To build a family is hard. To do right by you and your mother is hard. To have the patience to guide you is hard. To imagine doing anything else with my time is impossible. 

Love you to the moon and back, my boy. 

What you are to me now.

It has been almost a year since I stopped to put down some of how I am feeling about you! I guess I should have something to say then.

Here is what you are for me right now.

An eater of fruit. Unlike your salt addicted father, you love fruit. From apples to watermelons you eat it all. You would eat fruit from x to y to z as well, if we could find some.

And chips.

An aeroplane aficionado. Whether just the sound from behind the clouds or a pencil sketch of little ability by daddy, planes are met with great excitement.

All trucks are yellow. And big. I explain with the patience of fatherhood that yellow is a colour, that the truck is big, but blue. Big yellow truck, you reply.

A flea on the bed. Bouncing on the bed is a thrice daily event. Shouting “jump little shrimp” in Spanish. Tears from a bump on the head are not uncommon. Do as the doctor said. No more monkeys jumping on the bed.

A peppa addict. One hour a day of porcine entertainment. And then four hours a day asking for more.

A musician. You love music. To dance, to sing, to play the cajón. You don't have a cajón, but that doesn't stop you. A ball, a box, the chair, your legs. Everything is a cajón.

A sportsman. Your skills with a ball already surpass mine. You love to compete. To run, to jump and to kick. Anything. And Anyone.

An artist. You love to draw. Circles and lines. Snails and hands. You love to draw. On everything.

Older. When I look at you now I see a little boy. Walking from pace to place, greeting folks, explaining the world around you, sharing your opinions and desires in an ever louder voice.

Creative, adventurous, reckless. You get into trouble all the time in extremely creative ways. Sitting on top or climbing over or hanging off things that are not for sitting, climbing or hanging. A passive child would be much easier to manage. I love that you are not a passive child.

Disobedient. You move away from me, searching a space where I can't get to you. Behind the curtain, in my cupboard, on you bed, somewhere with the freedom to complete whichever undesired activity I am trying to prevent.

You are a first class mimic. You repeat things I say, with no understanding of what I said, with a perfect imitation of my estuary twang. Much to your mother's horror.

But mostly you are just my boy. A thing of total and utter simplicity and beauty.