
My darling, gorgeous boy: I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you puke, but he really is gorgeous, delicious, a delicious pumpkin of a boy. Smug, glorious, radiant.
Beautiful.
After he’s eaten, or when he’s doing a poo, he looks like his German grandpa – his Opa – or like a critical bunny rabbit. We call him the critical bunny rabbit cake, we say it in German, der kritische Kaninchenkuchen. Or: we call him the Postpaket – a parcel. When we give him to each other we call: I have a parcel for you! Ich habe ein Postpaket für Sie!
Oh, my darling: skinny and yet plump, round and proud like a king – or, better said, a sultan. I love watching him – especially when his satisfied little face floats off to sleep, his eyes drifting back into his head, his mouth wide open in a lewd, crude, drunken leer.
Yeah, sometimes he is drunk!
A drunken sailor.
Oh, my gorgeous, gorgeous darling boy: did I mention yet that he’s a fluffy little bunny rabbit? Not a critical one – but a toy one, velvet and fluffy, soft and floppy like a bunny rabbit, boneless, his paws padding my face in the diluted sunshine.
Only some days he is not a bunny rabbit AT ALL! Some days he is a politician – angry, earnest, blunt. And on some days he is sceptical but kind – a judge perhaps?
But when he drinks at my breast he’s a medieval knight.
A pumpkin, a bunny rabbit cake, his grandpa, a postpaket, a king, a sultan, a drunken sailor, a toy rabbit, a politician, a judge and a medieval knight.
And always he’s my boy,
My darling darling gorgeous baby boy,
My little Kindlein,
My darling,
Mein Liebling,
My little boy,
My prince,
My ANGEL,
Three weeks and five days old and already you own the world,
MY BABY: I LOVE YOU.
“Beauty is my child’s face.”*
Is there a more perfect sight than the face of a beloved child? Is there a more perfect feeling than stroking the softness of their skin? Is there a more perfect smell than inhaling their sweet scent as you envelope them in a tight embrace? These are some of the intoxicating wonders of motherhood. How I love to dwell on my child’s exquisite features, but no matter how long or how intently I gaze, the image is always changing. It is the nature of childhood.
* © from 'Being Mummy' by Anne‑marie Taplin, published April 2007