Wednesday 28th August 2014
Darling lamb, your father today left for London; not a long layover – gone today, and back on Friday – but long enough for us to miss his silly take on parenthood. He is proving to be your hero, and each morning you are carried with love out from our bedroom into the kitchen where I am usually in the nuddie, madly packing your nursery items/my lunch for work/getting ready and dressed. We together as a family sit for breakfast at the table, and as of quite recently, put on music for a morning dance-off.
No matter how hung over Erroll is, no matter how late he stumbles home from a night out with the lads, no matter how long his flight is coming into Dubai or how long the delay is in landing, we can always rely on Erroll to take control of his son, and deliver you fed, clean, changed and smiling to nursery.
When I look at Erroll all I see is love and stars and moonbeams; he is of course usually glued to his son.
We have a cute competition Erroll and I: who will arrive at the nursery first come the afternoon, and therefore catch our son playing merrily among the balls and mats. Whoever gets there first also has the privilege of calling out for Kingsley. Biggest thrill in the world is to be greeted with a surprise and wide smile from our son.
And then there is the pool: the domain of the father well and truly. I am relegated to the tasks of merely rinsing the infant under the tap, drying him with a towel, popping on his nappy and feeding him the boob. Erroll gets the fun job of playing an aqua-action hero.