Yesterday (1 March) I went up to London and visited my nephew M--- and his girlfirend C---, and little Matilda, who is now just over five months old. She looked like this:
Not quite yet able to sit up unsupported, but getting there. And no longer the slightly wrinkled little thing she was last November:
Don't three months make a difference? She was still very well-behaved: lots of smiles and noises of pleasure, and not many trembling tears of woe. Let's have a short Matildafest:
No, C--- wasn't trying to teach Matilda to read! She simply liked to touch things, and found books good for that. Her favourite 'book' was in fact a fabric affair, with all kinds of things sewn onto the 'pages' that were interesting to touch...or bite...
Oh, who's that then?
I got to hold her twice this time. She didn't turn a hair.
And here's proud Daddy:
Thirty-one years ago, in 1983, M--- was the baby. My late brother Wayne was just as pleased to be a father:
And did this feisty, carefree young man of twenty have any clear notion in 2003 that one day he'd be a parent himself?
So the years pass, so the generations rise in succession. Some of us push it all forward, as parents. Some others, like me, stand aside and simply watch in admiration. And get to hold the baby as a delightful privilege.