Six months

You were born six months ago today in a blaze of spring sunlight; now autumn has crept into our bones and that seems so long ago. You were born quietly, mewling rather than crying, and the moment they passed you to me between my wobbly legs, as I stood in front of our living room fireplace, will stay with me forever as one of my most precious memories. You were pinky-blue and so slithery, a defenceless little thing that slept most of the time, as long as you were in our arms or on my chest.

And now here you are, commando crawling your way around the living room floor as I type, trying every now and then to stay up on all fours. You haven’t been a newborn for a long time, yet today for some reason feels like the definite end of that newborn stage. I loved those confusing, feeling-around-in-the-dark early days, I loved the fact that you would curl up and fall asleep on my chest, the way your head would loll back when you were milk-drunk, the way your arms moved involuntarily, as graceful as a ballerina. I was lucky to feel like that, I know.

But I love these days too. I love seeing more and more of the little girl you will be – your determined nature, your friendliness, your immense curiosity about the world. And most of all, I love seeing you develop and learn to do things. It’s amazing to think of all the things you have learnt to do in the last six months, and to think that you’re still going, that you won’t stop learning and developing.

I love you, my little girl. You have filled our hearts with such immense love and joy that there are not words good enough to express them.

Just please, please, let these next six months drag their heels and go really slowly, okay?