A Not So Turkish Life

M: 3 Years Old

The brilliant Hafiz wrote “I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.” My darling boy I hope you’ll know always how wonderful the beam of your brightness so that in darkness, you recall it in an instant to let clouds pass, for MKM, my greatest privilege is the role of watching you shine brighter with each new day which passes, and at three years old you are, quite simply, astonishing; oh sweet, bright Babyone.

At three years old you love dinosaurs, in particular Pteranodon for whom you create nests from Lego to pasta of objects.
You love cereal and stickers and moulding monsters from play dough and gluing (anything) with an abundance of finger-sticking gloop.
You have a grin stretching the whole width of your face, and a frown that penetrates almost as deeply. You can touch your nose with your tongue and have left-handed tendencies, and prefer wellies over any other shoe.

At three years old you would wear pyjama bottoms all week-long, insist, still, that all zips and buttons are fastened absolutely; though now are quite happy covered head-to-toe in goo.

Your ambidextrous fingers make short work of cutting (almost) perfect straight lines,your imagination fashions dinosaur mazes from string, yarn, any ribbon or scarf.

At three years old, my darling MKM, you are a brother who’s patient and loving and fun. Gently, if not forcefully, you guide T through a multitudes of tasks, teaching him the life skills you determine important. Thanks to your thoughtful, thorough leadership he can scale cupboards relying on tiptoes and fingernails alone, peel vegetables with precision and soak any unsuspecting passerby with a hose pipe aimed at speed. T is lucky mashallah to have an Abi such as you.

Mayonnaise (Hellmans!) wraps, carrots raw but never cooked, butter cheese-slice-thickness and green tea, glitter and watercolour paper to crayon drawings of faces. Caillou and Brother Bear and Little Foot.

At three years old, you take any animal you find under your wing, giggling with glee as ladybirds run up your fngers, whispering softly as you stroke the puppy’s ears, “where’s your Mummy, little one? She’ll come back soon don’t wowwy. Don’t wowwy doggy, I’ll love you.”

At three years old, convinced as you are that birthdays mean just balloons and birthday cake – chocolate, with sprinkles and butttercream – certain that the world is here to befriend us and any mud an invitation to splash, free in exploration of self and place; at three years old, oh determined, curious, chaotic, caring one, I not only love the curly mopster you’ve become, but I like you so very, very, very, very much.

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This entry was published on 04/17/2014 at 08:14 and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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