Dearest, darlingest Grumbles,
Today, four years ago, you were born. Four years! Where on heck has the time gone? I suppose it has followed that golden rule: Time flies when you're having fun, and since you have brought nothing but joy and and happiness and laughter into my life, then it's no surprise that time has zoomed by at an expotential rate.
You and Daddy and I have sure done a lot in those four years. You've gone from a chubby bundle who could projectile vomit 6 feet across a room without batting an eyelid to a hilarious girl with an infectious laugh who can hold her own on the dance floor with the best of them. We've done bike holidays together, and music classes, and gymnastics, and kindergarten, and so many other wonderful activities, with you growing taller and more confident with each one, and me standing quietly by your side, collecting each memory and holding it in a special place in my heart.
Fantastic as all those things have been, it's the quiet, unexpected moments that I treasure the most. Like yesterday, for instance, when you instructed that I draw on a large piece of paper a mummy crocodile, a daddy crocodile and a baby Grumbles crocodile, and then you painted them in blue and yellow and brown, making them talk in funny voices like I do when I read books to you. And I watched, feeling so stupid with pride over you. Or each night, after we've sung "Moon, moon", and I'm turning off the light, and I say "I love you, Pumpkin-head!", and I hear you say through the darkness in a deep, growly voice, "I love you, crazy Mummy Pumpkin-head!"
I also like it when we walk down the street, and you say hello to somebody, and then before they have even finished passing you tell me in an extra-loud voice that "I have very good manners, don't I, Mum!" That one never fails to elicit a slightly embarassed guffaw from me.
Or when you insist that I play the Amelie soundtrack, and we dance and dance and dance around the loungeroom until I'm too out of breath to hold you up anymore, so then you lie down so I can play the 'piano' on your back, and we both lie there, giggling like crazy.
And the way that you are really, really crap at bargaining. I'll say "Ok, tiger, time to pack up, dinner's ready! Pop your colouring away please."
"How about five more minutes?"
"How about two more minutes?"
"How about next week?"
Like I said, it's the quiet, unexpected moments that I love the most. They're like a shiny, beautiful gift, comfirming to me how brilliant and wonderful you are, and how I must be the luckiest thing ever to share these days with you.
I love you, Pumpkin-head!