Friday, November 9, 2007

Baa Baa Black Sheep, how are you?

"Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full!" ~ Traditional nursery rhyme

My dearest E.,

This morning, as I dressed to go to work, you played with the new pink hair band I had bought for you, the one with a little clip-on teddy bear decorated with shiny crystal bits. You placed it in your hair, grinned at me and said, "Nice, Mummy!" I chortled as I got dressed.

And then, as you stroked your teddy bear and put the hair band over its head, I heard you singing, "Baa Baa Black Sheep, how are you? Yes sir yes sir, woo woo woo...." I hid a smile and continued to watch you. And you continued to sing those words over and over again. Your father, who was also dressing for work, winked at me and we both shared a happy smile, watching our little daughter sing and ask a black sheep how it was.

A year has passed

"Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!.... his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes". ~Charles Dickens

My dearest E.,

I can hardly believe that almost a year has flown by since I started writing in this blog for you. When I began, I wanted to be able to leave behind for you, lessons I had learnt in my life, changes I had gone through, my thoughts and hopes: these all were written as a means of instructions or guide, call it what you will, to you. And most of all, I wrote these entries in this blog because I wanted to, because you had given me such great inspiration to write, to release the feelings that lay quietly within my heart. Because I wanted you to know how much I love you.

Not too long ago, someone gave me an idea that I should publish all that I have written here. I've played with that idea quite a fair bit, honestly. I think I like the idea of having a book written just for you, which I can share with other mothers and people who'd maybe enjoy reading it. I know, these are thoughts which are extremely intimate and personal perhaps- but I'm not afraid of sharing my love for you. I really am not. I like the idea that one day, after I am dead and gone from this world, that you will have this strange little book I've written for you, and that it will give you comfort to "hear" my words ringing permanently on the ink-printed pages.

I don't expect that you will turn out like me. Quite the contrary. I think you have the makings of a very special individual person.

Perhaps this is where I should stop writing.... and start talking to you more, because you are 2 years old now, I can speak to you and your level of comprehension is clearly more advanced than it was a year ago. Or perhaps I will do both. Continue writing in this blog while I teach you things about life. I don't want to embarass you, though. I don't know if you'll be embarassed someday- what was my crazy, demented mother thinking, proclaiming her love for me to the world, telling strangers how I grew up and what I did as a child, even worse, my mother confessing to all her little failings! I chuckle a little as I think of these thoughts racing through your head, perhaps in 12-15 years down the road.

But time is very precious, my sweet. Soon enough, you will no longer listen to your old mother. You will have ideas of your own, thoughts independent from mine. You will no longer be dependent on me for your survival. So let me indulge in this just once. Let me say the things I need to say, want to say, to you.

What a wonderful year it has been, my sweet pea. And again and again- I'm ever so thankful, ever so happy, that you are my daughter.