It’s true, time flies when you’re having fun. Despite all the challenges you’ve presented – the tantrums; the sleep deprivation; the monotony of routine; the pumpkin-milk-pasta-and-corn-plastered floor; the hypnotic sounds of your favourite shows In the Night Garden, Play School and Peppa Pig; and who could forget ‘Stickergate’? – the past three years have been a blast. I look at you now and feel amazed by how quickly you’re growing up.
As your beautiful curly hair (that your mother, it seems, will never let a hairdresser near) becomes crazier and cuter, so, too, has your face transformed from angelic baby and toddler and into the sweet little girl that we adore today. I feel like an old man saying this but I feel like you’re three going on 13. (I’m a father now, I’m allowed clichés as well as dads jokes.)
Increasingly I see your mother in you, especially when asleep (like your mum you have this semi-distressed but zonked look going on when in the land of the nod), and there’s no doubt you’re going to be as beautiful as her. It’s always been the way – right from your purple-and-red-faced first few hours, when, beyond the jaundice and the battle scars of labour, your natural beauty shone through. And from that uncertain, distressing introduction to the world to this very moment, you’ve always been at the forefront of my brain; you’re my purpose and my heart. I utterly dread the thought of any harm coming to you.
Here’s an extract from X Years, Nine Months, a memoir I self-published detailing the nine-month build-up to your arrival. It’s the morning after your ‘head-wetting’ at a pub in North Melbourne:
"I’ve got Edith in my arms, slowly rocking and shoo-shooing (away from her, so to not subject her to my alcohol fumes). After a few minutes of red-faced protest she settles into my rhythms and I think: I can do this! My head’s heavy but it doesn’t cloud the love I’m feeling for my daughter. Her eyes slowly close and her lips droop. Tiny white pimples dot her face. I caress the side of her bruised head and ponder what’s in store for the three of us. I’ve made a point of watching the habits of new parents in recent times and I know it’s all ahead of me. But looking down at Edith – my beautiful, god-sent Edie – I’m looking forward to the journey. The next journey. Thank you, I whisper to my daughter, for being that barrier to my bullshit. For being my purpose. For being the best mistake I’ll ever make..."
Now it’s time to thank you in the present tense.
Thank you for the continuing joy you bring your mother and I.
Thank you for your being the inquisitive, energetic, creative (“Be a CUSTOMER at my COFFEE SHOP!”) and caring soul that you are; your mother and I certainly won’t be lacking in default conversation material when we eventually return to a life that includes going out for dinner!
Thank you for being so open and giving to our friends (to quote Stevo: “I have a lot of love for one of your daughters... I will get to work on the other once she is old enough…”) and even to strangers; you can’t possibly know how much your smiles at cafes and parks brighten others’ days.
And, finally, but perhaps most importantly, thank you for being such a great big sister. Avie is so lucky to have you. The way she looks at you with such unadulterated love in her eyes – it’s like she can foresee how good you’re going to be to her in life.
Thank you for adapting this year – your mummy and I know how difficult it’s been for you, but you’ve come through in flying colours… and it feels like we’ve all come out the other side.
Happy third birthday, my beautiful girl.
Love, Dadda.
