20th January 2018
It doesn’t feel like I’ll be back this week.
You’ve grown to that point that rounded angelic figurine that’s about to peak.
Each fall, held wall, balance act sickness in free fall. He stands tall. Wobblers thrown, marked tears, accusations and irrational fears. If she’s a girl he has this plus another sixteen years.
He switches gears.
A father feels the gains and losses. Stands stoic with a cup he make believe’s a chalice.
He’s there when she can’t fall.
When she’s one foot tall.
When she can’t balance.
There when it’s “Pick me up” and “Can I sit on the side?”
There when those moments stop because “I’m a big girl now dad!” and a tear he hides.
The world’s growing up and expanding he’s not as needed as he once was, as much as there’s much love.
He fears the landing.
“Dad build a tower”
“Dad lets go out”
“Dad Can I have?”
She’s become demanding, Ipad raging, storytime with Cbeebies line by line. Educational needs “Don’t touch dad that’s mine!” learning to share. “That’s not fair!” and “Come here blow your nose there’s snot everywhere!”
“I don’t care!” It’s bedtime and I’ve repeated a hundred times to eat your tea.
Now she’s copying me cleaning my teeth “No baby, watch. Just like me”
“Dad I’m a big girl, will you read to me?”
“Of course baby, hug?”
“Snug as a bug in a rug”
© G.P Williamson 2018