This time last week we were getting ready to bring our daughter Sunday Adeline home for the first time.
Here she is nestled on her favourite pink pillow to which she got very attached when we took it with us to the hospital. (It’s pink because that’s my second-favourite colour for adult bed linen, not because she’s a girl! And don’t worry, she has a proper basket now to lounge in.) And there’s Jude, putting her to sleep by telling her the story of how her parents met. (“And then your Mum said to me, ‘I suppose I could do breakfast.’ At 8.30! In the morning!”) Then that’s her getting ready for her first walk in her sling. And some of the late-summer sights we saw in London Fields. My eyes hurt on that walk from the sun!
I have cried this week because I know she is going to grow up and not always be the size of an AFL football, and cried because she hasn’t let me eat my dinner, and cried whenever she’s got a present or a nice comment on Instagram, and cried reading in a baby book about problems she doesn’t even have because I feel sorry for other babies who do.
She is perfect.