Marking time

Exactly five years ago, I was blinking into the daze of fresh parenthood, about half a day in.  After forty two weeks and about  two and a half days of resisting every reasonable coercion and encouragement, my first child cried into the ten thirty of a Saturday morning.

Half dream dozing, half elated, the three of us descended from the heady heights of the labour ward, situated high above the accompanying sprawl of a time served maternity hospital winding down to closure around forty years.

I stayed as long as I was allowed, and return home to Facebook the world, supping ham hough lentil soup and Scapa 16.

I think I knew I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for; but I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for.

Five years on, and after midnight present wrapping the helpless babe I cradled all those years ago after a day of presents, cake, cards and happy birthday singing.  Not to mention primary school.

Where the time goes, I can’t tell you.  What it brings – a truly independent human being, who cannot help but challenge, frustrate, affirm and reward me; who’s unswerving sense of himself staggers me on a daily basis; who’s innocent faith in the human beings around him humbles me to my core; who’s potential and fragility perplexes and amazes me.

Tonight, I’m supping a slight measure of Bushmills, acquired to toast the Emerald Isle’s great loss a couple of weeks back.  Tomorrow, The Great Party will happen.

Five years time?  Who knows where it will take us.  But with a bit of luck, and some of something more tangible I can figure what I’ll bring to them. 



About damagnifyingless

I live in Glasgow, and express myself through poetry, film, photography and my blog at
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