Letter to Le Jig Jog

A sentimental old fool; 7.21am this morning.








It's been exactly a year to the day since that very nice man, wearing blue overalls and slightly suspicious plastic clogs, sliced me open and introduced you – my beautiful Lucy Lamorna - to the world.

And what a year it's been. To say that it's all gone a bit quickly is, well, more understated than an entire convention of Understaters. The crust on my eyes has barely twinkled, and yet many, many things have changed. I've gone from being an overly anxious, slightly drunken career girl in a dwindling relationship to a single mother, and yet I wouldn't alter a thing.

The first days and weeks with you felt eternal. I couldn't tell if you were hungry, tired, bored, cold, colicky, or just frustrated at having missed the first few episodes of Big Brother. All of a sudden, my day's normal activities were replaced by a constant barrage of crying, nappy-changing, feeding, burping and rocking. Even when you were asleep I couldn't rest, and had to check every second that I hadn't mistakenly managed to kill you in some hideous National Enquirer incident. Danger seemed everywhere: malicious nappy bags threatened to release themselves from their packet and float over to your cot to choke you; the evil asbo sun would try to sneak through your curtains to burn you; and villainous books prepared to throw themselves from far-off shelves to bash your precious head.

Thankfully, things gradually got easier: with the help of good old Gina Ford, I was able to get some sleep, and some days even managed the herculean tasks of both eating and dressing in the shaky knowledge that there'd be at least half an hour in the day when you would give me some rest. Then suddenly, the days started to drip with oil and slipped past so quickly that I could barely catch them. And now, now you're one, I can't believe how fast it's all happened, and how much I've learnt over the simple course of a year.

For a start, I can now block the hearing in one ear as surrounding wine glasses shatter at the onset of your crying. I can peel and massage a parsnip whilst simultaneously stopping you from emptying the entire contents of the washing machine and crawling inside for a swift spin cycle. My favoured topics of conversation now include a thousand and one tips for removing carrot stains and which songs about frogs and row boats I would take to a desert island.

Impressively, I can now also keep a straight face whilst you trump like an untrained fishwife in a queue of strangers. I've paid for shopping with odd brown streaks on the back of my hands, and learnt that (thankfully!) most people are too polite to mention the fact that I've left the house again with baby vomit on my top and yesterday's knickers hanging out the bottom of my jeans.

But more than all that, I've found such joy in the smallest things of you. A mere twelve months ago, I would rather have grated my own flesh than face the thought of a daily clothes wash and twenty thousand nappy changes. But, now even the most deathly-boring and menial of tasks has a point. And, Daddy may have left, but I've come to realise that I am enough for you and when we're together we are more than complete. Unfortunately for the distilleries of Scotland, I also now know that a smile from you is more warming than the finest single malt; and I would give up the riches of Midas to know that you are happy, safe and well.

A good year indeed. The strangest thing of all is that I can hardly remember a time when there was no you. You are the beginning and the end of me, and the one thing that finally makes sense of it all: whoever you become, wherever you go - I will always love you.

Happy Birthday, baby.

x