I have written to you before and said how I often compose letters to you in my head as we go about our day. This is one of those letters that I 'wrote' while we were on an early morning walk.
You had woken at 5.40am, crying and wanting milk, as you normally do. Once your tummy was content, you struggled to return to sleep, thanks to your congested nose. So I sat with you in the rocking chair, going back and forth, back and forth while you clung to my neck and groaned. Every now and then, you would calm down, your body limp and heavy with the weight of sleep being so close to you, but then the groaning would start again. After an hour of this, I needed to change tack, so we got up. My stomach was growling, as it always does in the morning, ready to start the day with food. I opened the tin on the side which held a batch of breakfast cookies that I had made last night. I gave you a piece and you climbed onto your chair and quietly nibbled away.
I know that this letter contains many small details of how our day begun, and I wonder whether we will look back at this letter in ten years time, and I will wonder why I bothered to write these things down. Every time I have this thought - this questioning over whether my words and thoughts are worth writing down in this place, the after-thought is always the same: I have never regretted the time I used to spend putting pen to paper and journalling, and I think I am more likely to regret the times I decided not to write. I know that my memory cannot be relied upon to recall these small details that make up our days, and I am sure that one day, when you are much older, I will hold a gratitude for writing these things down to remember what our days looked like when you were little.
Here's to many more walks together by the light of the sun, the moon, and the street lamps.