As I write this letter, you are cradled in your Father's arms, having woken from sleep. It is in this window of time between your bedtime and ours that you wake a couple of times with little whimpering sounds, beckoning us upstairs to give you a little help to get back to sleep.
At this time six months ago, we were in the hospital where you were born. We spent our first night together there, just you and me. You were born at 4.44pm, and a couple of hours later, your Grandparents (my Mum and Dad) and Uncle Ben came to visit. Once they had left the hospital, the midwife brought a wheelchair for me to take me to have a bath. I remember commenting to the midwife that this was the first time that I had ever been in a wheelchair - it's funny to think that this is what I would choose to talk about - as though giving birth for the first time was completely normal, and that travelling in a wheelchair for the first time was the most remarkable thing happening in that moment.
It goes without saying that you have changed a great deal in the six months since you were born. You have gone from this:
The way you are able to shake the jacket from Peter Rabbit's back with great vim and vigour, in quite an impressive manner.
The way you grab our faces and chew them in the most affectionate way.
The faces that you pull when you try a new food for the first time. We are seeing a whole new range of expressions from you that are, quite frankly, hilarious.
The way you can still fall asleep in an instant, but only when you're in the sling. These days, you like to be rocked to sleep.
The way you are entertained for an incredible length of time by exploring the foil blanket that Daddy got after running the Bristol 10k.