Today I was idly flicking through some RSS feeds trying desperately to catch up with the 834...835...836 posts I had missed. This caught my eye and I lobbed it at Instapaper to read later:
A short time ago, having finished dinner, I was perusing bookofjoe which threw up this:
I mean, really?
As a father I find myself lurching inside, heart-in-mouth as Freyja hurls herself across the living-room/garden/stairwell yet again. But she manages to miss all the hard/pointy/sharp stuff with an insouciance born only of youth. I know I'd hate her to misjudge it and meet the still-about-to-be-painted skirting boards at pace. But I'd hate it more if she grew up not knowing what it was like to learn that life has 'bumps' and she needs to develop the skills to deal with them. And yes, I'll always be there when she needs me, but it's up to her to decide. With #2 almost certainly days away, she's going to have to learn to share a whole lot more; be that our time, our affection, our attention or our biscuits.
I'm utterly besotted with my family and completely up for the challenge of guiding her and the rest of our brood into, I hope, wonderful people who make judgements and mistakes but at the same time learn perseverance and independence. It's at times like this that you start to realise what your own parents went through and if I can be half as good as them, I reckon I'll be on the right track...