So my baby you are a whole one and a half years old today. And a whole one and a half years worth of your very own person.
You don't like to leave the house without a hat, the donning of which you mastered months ago. You are fixated with shoes, ducks and twit-twoos (owls to the uninitiated).
If allowed you would happily exist on cheeeeese, peaeaeaeas, and milk.
Your communication skills are coming on leaps and bounds, not only do you understand far more than is comfy for your mother right now, you know how to make yourself understood: your noisy refusal to relinquish the spoon and fork you found in my handbag at 3:30 yesterday afternoon was not just a magpie fixation, you were hungry. Go figure mummy.
I love walking hand in hand with you, I love swinging on the swing beside you even if I do have to keep hopping off to swing you higher than your little legs can make you go (oh yes she is working on the leg action required for self-propulsion).
I love the roll-call of the people in your life you love, the list of names you can say grows longer by the day, and that you greet me in the morning with the name of the person you are missing most at that point in time.
In many ways I don't mind being beckoned to your room once a night, I choose to think of it as a way to keep in touch during the darkest hours (easy to say in the middle of the afternoon).
I even love the way you love your Daddy. You look for him, you call for him, you play with him but luckily you don't cry for him. I know he is your number two.
And I know that I am your number one and you are, most certainly, mine.