So Samuel turned 18-months-old today and, cripes, it's a brilliant age to be isn't it? You get taken to a soft play centre, you get pointed in the direction of some foamy steps that nobody is going to stop you from climbing up and a ball pool that nobody is going to piss on your chips and shout, 'No, Samuel, we don't do that!' when you hurl yourself into it, so you grin and throw your arms up in the air and shriek with joy because LIFE HAS NEVER BEEN SO EXCITING. That is until later when your Aunty Pam pops over to visit with Georgie, a slobbery, excitable black Labrador three times the size of you and you beam so broadly you look like your face will break and you bounce and wave and reach out for him because LIFE HAS NEVER BEEN SO EXCITING.
A tube of bubbles. A car ride. A dance. A manky pigeon. A bounce on an old mattress. Somebody walking their fingers across the tray on your high chair. When you're 18-months-old even the most ordinary of things can hold of the most exciting of possibilities and elicit the deepest of belly laughs. And I get to watch it. I get to watch it all. I think I'm starting to understand that thing I used to think people were just making up about motherhood being rewarding, because I realise that now I have an 18-month-old LIFE HAS NEVER BEEN SO EXCITING.