My
wife once said her only major concern about being a mother was that she loved
our son, Myles, “just too much”. I understand that sentiment completely. When
he was first born I used to fret about my work deadlines, rushing back to my
desk with dark mutterings after helping with a bottle feed or a particularly
nauseous nappy change. Now I tend to linger over playtime, savouring the feel
of his squirming, inquisitive body against mine or kicking a squidgy football
around on the rug as Myles, like a highly strung Teletubby, trots on all fours
around my feet. Occasionally I find myself watching Peppa Pig long after Myles has returned to his building blocks.
“Don’t go up the room,” Vina warns me as we watch TV in the evening. “You’ll
only wake him.” But there’s a special delight in watching my baby son
slumbering in his cot, one fist loosely bunched and Flopsy, his loyal bedtime
toy, tucked under the other arm. Truth is, I’m besotted with Myles. I marvel at
this speck of humanity who has already gone from wrinkled baby to athletic
boyhood in such a short space of time. The other day I composed a list of all
the things that delighted me about my son: his first attempts to say “Dadda”
(Vina tells me all babies say that first and not to get big headed), the way he
hauls himself to his feet only to tumble over onto his amply padded bum, the
look of utter concentration as he plays with his building blocks or pushes his
wooden car, his pre-dawn chats to Flopsy before the rest of the house stirs. Best
of all is his distinctive wave – an oddly artistic even Royal twist of the
wrist. But what really melts my heart is his warm brown eyes, so serious one
moment and scrunched up in laughter the next. When people ask me what has
changed in the 23 years since my first son Courtney was born, I could say medical
technology, children’s TV or nappy design (all true) but the biggest shift is
in me. I try to enjoy every single moment with my son, whether that’s a simple walk
in the park, a cuddle on the sofa or trying brush off a trail of goo on my
jacket. At nine months Myles’ personality, confident, questioning and I suspect
slightly anarchic, is already beginning to shine through. He may not have
acquired much of a vocabulary beyond “gee” and “dee” but my son speaks to me
through his laughter, his smile and, from time to time, his operatic sobs. It
is sobering to think that human beings learn to laugh before we
talk. Myles reminds me that we are here to be joyous, passionate and curious. Not glum and pessimistic. As all parents know you can never love your child enough – only be grateful for
everything that they bring into your lives. I can’t wait for his first birthday!
