The year you made us parents

Small enough to hold like this — We kept looking at your feet. Ten tiny toes, somehow real, somehow ours to look after. It took us a while to stop whispering around you.

Our first afternoon on the grass — We packed enough for a week and stayed for an hour. You studied the trees while we ate lunch one-handed. It was the first outing that felt less like a mission and more like a day together.

The things the pictures missed — The squeak before you laughed. The way you fell asleep holding a finger. The long evenings when a walk around the room was the only thing that helped. They belong in this book as much as the big firsts.