The lessons of a decade

These are the things I didn't know ten years ago:

that when I packed that little white suit and took it to the hospital, I really would be coming home with a baby girl in it

that my arms would know your size and weight from the moment you were given to me, as though I had always been waiting for you

that running my cheek across yours and inhaling your smell would be pleasure close to bliss

that you would still let me do this now

that you would always be so hard to wake up

except when you woke me first

that your eyes would be green and then brown and then topaz

that your eyelashes and nose would be exactly your father's and so too your expression of delighted mischief on learning another spectacularly bad joke

that I would be ready to fight tigers for you

but that balloons and hand-dryers would terrify you above all else

that I would come to know by heart the lyrics to many, many Disney songs and belt them out without shame

and that sometimes they would make me cry

and that sometimes sentimental adverts would make me cry

and that any books involving small girls in peril would make me cry

and that still I would underestimate how often the love of you would make me cry

that you would teach me how to draw the perfect mermaid

that you would teach me not to care when people look

that you would teach me infinite patience

and that you would teach me when it was time to start a riot

that I would always be a bit lonely when you weren't around

that being your mother would break my heart, several times over

and that being your mother would be the greatest achievement of my life

Happy Birthday darling Grace. Here's to the next ten years. xxxxxxxx