She is one. This seems completely impossible, but the calendar confirms is is true.
She sleeps snuggled close to one of us in our big bed. She likes to tuck her feet around against my tummy for warmth, & push against me, just like she did when she grew inside.
She uses words – uh oh, moo, no – & her own invented signs to tell me what she wants. She dances to any music, anywhere – even house alarms and power drills, occasionally. She calls R dadda & me, hilariously, Sara – shouted up the stairs in the morning, sing-songed from the bath at night. Funny funny girl.
She zooms around the house on her bike then careers over for a cuddle. She’s obsessed with small oranges (tangerines/nectarines/mandarins… aren’t they all the same?) and would eat three at a time if I let her.
She gets mad when she gets to the end of Dear Zoo, runs out of pages to turn & flaps to lift, so I have to quickly flip it over & start again before she can cry.
She is me, and she is him, and she is entirely individually herself. Love, I expected, but this overwhelming admiration for all that she is – her courage & humour & fury – that took me by surprise.
Happy birthday, Spud <3