I’ve been at a loss for words all day about this monumental anniversary in our lives. Three hundred and sixty-five days old. Three hundred and sixty-five days as “mother”. Three hundred and sixty-five days as “father.” Three hundred and sixty-five days of hard fucking graft, man. The hardest work we’ve ever done.
Three hundred and sixty-five days of pure, heart-busting joy. Three hundred and sixty-five days of firsts… the first gurgles and giggles, smiles and sobs, trips and falls, yawns and tired bones. It has been a lesson in patience, compromise, giving in, giving up, surrendering, preserving, persevering and loving… loving hard… because sometimes that was all there was left to do.
Imogen Rose, you are strong and brave and clever and kind and courageous and beautiful. I whisper these words to you every day. You are also strong-willed and stubborn (of course, I mean why wouldn’t you be?) and so damn funny. You make us laugh all day. You love your animals (even Lulu, who doesn’t love you back right now – she’ll come round), hummus – oh my god you’re the bloody queen of hummus – bananas, being giddy, making your mama giggle (I fear you may be a clown like your uncle Chris already), playing ball and dancing and singing.
You’ve been such a blessing to us and your biggest gift of all has been moulding me into a version of myself I had only ever dreamed of becoming. Thank you my love. And Happy Birthday. Here’s to another three hundred and sixty-five days around the sun; another three hundred and sixty-five of growing, learning, changing and simply being. For all of us.