Lamb

That’s right. Get the massive eye-roll out of the way first. By the time you’re old enough to be able to read this you’ll be exhausted from pleading with me not to call you that; especially in front of your mates. I try not to. Swear. In the same way I try not to swear after I’ve sworn. You’re not so bad at that yourself. I hear the yelps of “Jesus Christ!” when life is giving you jip. Those dolls clothes can be tricky to get off alright. Even they have to lie down flat on the bed to yank their zips up. Wait till someone robs the parking space you’ve been keeping your engine ticking over for, or refuses you an overdraft. You’ll be adding more exclamation marks to it then. And get ready to let rip with a string of them when someone addresses you as Dear Ms. Lamb. You either have penalty points, or you didn’t get the job.

I can’t think of any other way to address you here. I don’t want anyone else to know your name. Or see your face. And I’m not so sure what I want to say to you anyway. An almighty urge to write to you usually strikes at the most inopportune times. For instance, when I’m driving along with your Granny. She might be waxing lyrical on all the crazy matriarchs in her clan down the decades, and I’m warning myself to remind myself to get it all down. This is your history. And then the feeling fades. Or when you’ve sent the clouds skedaddling after a shit day at work. Like today. I’m thinking I should probably start a new paragraph now.

So I will. Yeah. Today. Jesus Christ !!!!. One of those. A few weeks ago I was writing about how your Uncle’s snoring tested the vows your Da and I made when we had him round to stay. Yet, your snoring is one of the most calm-me-down sounds around. And it is definitely surround sound. Disaster in the nostril of another but strangely soothing coming from you. Like your cracker crunching, and the indecipherable mumbling I hear between you and your Dad on Saturday mornings. Both annoying in a lesser loved voice.

So I sat listening to you snoring earlier when I came in from work. Your Da told me you went to sleep quickly, but you got upset looking through photos of a holiday we had in Berlin long before you came along. You couldn’t see yourself anywhere. I know – I can’t imagine life without you either. In many ways, life stayed the same. I was back Jesus Christing my work sooner than I’d have liked. But for a few minutes when I come in at night, you manage to single-nosedly, open-mouthedly, delete the exclamation marks. I’ve been reminding myself to get myself to thank you for that. Done.

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