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.