I was out when you banged your face against the bed frame this afternoon. Your mum called me to tell me to come back. When I got home, you were asleep and your blood was on your mother's clothes. I lay next to you until you woke. When you did, drowsy, you put your hand down my t-shirt as you often do, and realised I wasn't your mum. You wanted her.
We talked - you are becoming so articulate and words I haven't taught you are used correctly in whole sentences - and then I saw blood was still coming out of the cut above your teeth. We took you to the hospital - an idea you enthuse about - but a reality you weren't so keen on as the nurse, doctor and specialist looked into your mouth.
Everything was okay, which is what I thought (you can't be too careful) and we can mark it down as another experience. You have a fat lip but it worries you not. I'd put you in your new wellies so you splashed around in puddles just outside the hospital when we got off the bus and later outside the Indian restaurant we ate in on the way home.
There are three Indians on Grey's Inn Road by the bus stop called King's Cross station. I'd been into none of them in the fourteen years I've been around here but have visited all three in the last month. You have delighted waiters with your knowledge of the cuisine (poppadom, mango chu(k)ney, pilau rice, nan bread are staples of your vocabulary) and we give you mild curries and a bit of tarka dal.
Son, you are two years and nearly three months old. Your language skills are phenomenal and you motor skills (which I'd worried about because as over-eager parents we may do too much for you) are catching up. You are putting Lego (duplo) together yourself now and 80 more bricks arrive tomorrow. You will always be my special boy.
I don't write about you as much as I intended too. I love you so much and the time we have together is great. You always have some new way to surprise me. It is often a sudden flourish of chat but can be your climbing and jumping skills. Today, when you got back from the London Transport Museum ,you told me that you "walked, jumped, drove a train, walked some more, got in a bus and did some more walking". It was so cute, my nearly-three-year-old son, that writing it down cannot do it justice.
