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I part your hair dead centre, and gather your bunches to the sound of Pingu. “Nood nood” he honks raucously, as I slide in a pussy cat clip or two, before you see them and try to snatch them out of my hand. A man outside walks slowly past, and you thrust your pointing-finger towards him, then look at me to share this moment, so important in your world. You love it when the kids rattle by on their scooters, and the bin men on a Wednesday, especially the one that sings.

If I could only choose one word to describe your fledgling personality, it would be passionate. Of all the babies I know, it’s you who kicks the hardest and most excitedly. Even in the womb I felt it, over and over, your heels inside my skin, like a drummer keeping a beat. You’re quick to rise too, frustrated in an instant when you can’t get up a step or reach your spoon. I recognise that temper, that red hot wave.

If I could have a second word to describe you, it would be beautiful. People stop me in the street to tell me. I already know. Your eyes are the angel kind, copper lights surrounded by denim blue, with lashes that bat and touch your heart. Nanny calls you Betty Boop. It’s true, you’re to die for.

As our eighteenth month together ticks by, my ever-swelling love for you has turned me inside out and on my head. I doubt so much about myself these days, and fear - so many times a day - that I might let you down. I take in all your innocence and sweet fatty skin, and sense time passing, taking you away from me, and me away from you.

I also sense an imprint, nothing short of a lioness, move within my blood - stopping at nothing to protect you. It’s a knowing that simmers and brims, and feels so good, as I hold you in my arms and say your name.