Your life away from me.
When you were a baby, I couldn't imagine not having you by my side. We did everything together: baby groups, lunchtimes, playtime and naps.
I held you in my arms and drunk in everything about you. Your blue almond eyes and your fluffy blonde hair. Your fleshy arms and legs, and your little head bobbling about and observing the world with wonder and curiosity.
Your little smile arrived, and soon after your chuckle. Everything fascinated you and we revelled in your delicious giggle. We still do.
Your first steps came, a little later, but they came, and overnight you turned from a baby into a little girl.
Our daughter, a granddaughter, a cousin and a sister.
You started to sign. You started to take an interest in toys and books, in Disney films and Waffle the Wonder dog. You developed a preference for Jaffa cakes.
Things made you angry and sad; joyful and mischievous. Textures became a comfort and certain noises sometimes brought confusion and upset.
Then you gradually started to have experiences away from me: making friends, and napping in different places.
Developing bonds with other adults and children, and widening your circle of trust.
Making your own sense of the world without me. Absorbing conversations and smells, and sights and songs.
Observing other children and wanting to do the things they do. Picking up their language in your own little way and trying your hardest to form the words like they do.
You need this life away from me; and I know that in my heart.
But sometimes I crave those days when I could hold you for hours and you were never too far away from me.
I hope the world always holds you in their arms and values you for the unique, complex, delightful little human you are.
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