Super PF is eight months old today. I held her close at her bedroom window this morning, as the sun was rising, and talked to her about all that we could see.
It doesn’t seem possible that eight months and one day ago I was wondering if she was ever going to arrive, desperate to know who she was and what – or who? – she would look like.
Now it’s difficult to imagine we were ever without her. She may appear small, but to me she is a towering Amazonian princess, independent and beautiful, yet – in the most pleasing juxtaposition I have ever happened upon – she is also a highly sensitive little girl who needs attention, lots of eye contact and encouragement, and to be held. She likes to have her hands in yours; her body cuddled close; her cheeks stroked; she loves loud kisses on the creases of her legs; and she giggles with delight at “This little piggy went to market”.
“She’s going to be a challenge for him,” remarks proud papa Super H fairly often about the future relationship with her brother, his eyes sparkling and crinkling with pleasure as he suddenly learns something new about who she is and what she does or doesn’t like.
If she’s having a hard time we can usually make her smile instantly by taking her to the mirror. She loves to see herself and me carrying her in my arms. Sometimes she reaches out to touch her reflection, and occasionally in the process she knocks the dried lavender in the vase, causing small purple flowers to tumble below. Often I leave them there, preferring to have a messy mantelpiece than a spotless one. The scattered buds remind me of those precious moments where her face lights up on seeing us together, where I can see, for sure, that she looks exactly like me (especially pleasing because I’m an adopted only child).
She’s opinionated, funny, smart and larger than life. She laughs easily – with her bright eyes and her “fossettes” dimpling (just like mine) – yet it can be over in a flash. She’s quickly upset and can scream instantly with exactly the same ease. This girl knows precisely what she’s all about, what she wants and what she’s going to be.
It’s just that we don’t know yet.
Watching that unravel, paying attention as she slowly wakes up more and more each day since she came into the world eight months ago, helps you understand not only what a beautiful and remarkable journey parenthood is, but how unique the journey and the unravelling is for each child.
I almost envy her self-assurance at such a young age, and I’m so proud of her. I’m also slightly overwhelmed at the enormity of the journey ahead to make sure her intense energy and emotion is channelled in the right way, and that she grows up preserving this pure and prolific untarnished life force where everything is good.
Even though it’s difficult to see the sprawling Pyrénées from her bedroom window – which are perfectly visible some days when it’s clear like today, even at 120km away – the Black Mountains, in all their darkness and greatness, lie directly ahead.
“Look,” I said to her this morning, as the sun rose in the sky, “look how pretty the mountains are today, can you see?” Fluffy clouds sat on top of the usually-sombre Black Mountains, glowing and ethereal, as the sun rose in the sky, its golden rays like laser beams shooting life into the mist that loomed in the valley below.
She gazed ahead, seemingly taking in nature’s otherworldly radiance outside her window. It was so peaceful, that moment, full of hope and promise for the future.
We seemed light years away from the stresses, dangers and unfairness of the world, the problems that she knows nothing of, those that I don’t ever want her or my beautiful and sensitive little boy to know.
If only we could stay in these moments forever.