Birthday Eve

It's the eve of your birthday and I'm listening to you coughing. An hour and a half, in bed, warm and cosy with your four little friends, a doona over you, the heater on, a chink of light through that big gap under the door. Coughing coughing. The doctor says it's just snot in the back of your throat. Not much we can do. Honey and Panadol.

It's a little heartbreaking. But we're hoping better and brighter tomorrow after three days of crook. Your birthday is right when winter bites. That was a name on the list - Winter. But Milla won.

First week baby. 

Of course thoughts go to last year, we were all crook then too. The year before, the amazing story of your arrival. And the year before, moving into our home, before you.

Now. We are so mad in love with you. Charlie's face when you're naughty and we send you to sit in the hallway. Trying not to laugh. How you say 'scuse me' as you busily bump into us as you work around the house. How good you are with your letters. How lovely you are with Alpi and friends. Your serious face when helping cook, crush garlic, stir, pack the dishwasher, carry laundry to your room. How you try to tickle me. When you ask for cuddles. The face when you've just poured water over your head in the shower. The habit of wanting to hold our hands lately. Saying 'I wake up!' in the most cheery way. How you pretend to be a baby with me. Gah, and those tantrums, particularly trying to get undressed as we head out the door.