It’s hard to believe but it’s a full year since Baby D dived headfirst into our world, arms and legs flailing wildly. Twelve whole months since we tore up everything we knew to that point and stuck it all back together to include our little guy.
Not so long ago by evening time we would have had a track walked around the sitting room, with a little red-faced koala bear clinging to our shoulders, roaring loudly into our ears. Looking at him last night, as he sat ramrod straight by the bookcase, busily engrossed in divorcing our CDs from their plastic cases, I realised how grown up he’s become. Then he hit himself in the face with the edge of a CD and toppled over with surprise. He’s still a very helpless little fellow I thought as I picked him up and dusted him off.
About the same time a year ago we had just been wheeled down to the Hospital ward. We were both a little dazed and confused. “You two sit there now and get to know each other,” the midwife said when she left. So we sat and looked at each other. Both of us concentrating hard; me on keeping a slippery Baby D from toppling off my knee and Baby D on getting the world into focus with his big blue eyes. At that particular moment, neither of us knew very much about anything. We were at the top of a blank sheet of paper, of the first page of the first chapter of an epic novel.
“I’m your Mama,” I told him and kissed his forehead. Baby D yawned and closed his eyes.
And, just like that, our story began.
