I remember so well the first time I saw you.

Your little head slightly squished from your fraught arrival, covered in a mop of blonde hair. She handed you to me, wrapped in your blue hospital blanket, “a big lad”she told me. You still are.

I held you tight and stared, marvelling at your very existence. “We made you” I whispered, your Dad’s arm around me, around us both. Our little family. Brand new.

We packed you into your space-aged car seat a few days later and brought you home. Our bundle of joy, our bundle of responsibility. It was time to adult, one Ikea trip at a time. You grew us up.

The early days were hard, colic, sleepless nights, then teething, so much teething. Family and friends gathered round and reassured us that it was normal to feel this tired, and brought cake.

We weren’t ready for the hard bits but you made up for it with smiles and giggles, exploring with your fingers, finally finding your toes.

You never stopped moving, always on the go. Full of chat, eyes dancing with devilment. You got around on your own steam, crawling, cruising, you ran around the Zoo on your first birthday, us chasing to keep up with you. We still are.

You’re ten today. In true parent style, I can’t quite believe it. Where did the time go? Who’s this young man in front of me?

I look at you and want to burst with pride. You’re a good kid. A great kid, with great hair. (You pride yourself on it).

What more would anyone want said of them? I could stop there, but I’m on a roll.

You’re thoughtful and kind, loyal to your friends (and GAA club).

You love a good pun and to goof around, you make a mean chocolate biscuit cake and have almost perfected your free-taking. You sing non-stop, one minute a pop song, the next a traditional ballad. You’re interested in so many things and soak up information, expect just everyone else to do the same (Liverpool trivia is not my forte).

You stand tall and straight, confident but not cocky. You say what you think. And sometimes apologise for that later. No harm.

You have your moments now too, let’s not forget the odd door slamming or elbowing of a sibling. (Sure angels are boring.) You need to be “reminded” to do jobs more than once. I’m OK with that. Mostly.

From that day I met you I marvelled at you, and I still do.

Happy tenth birthday firstborn.

You make me so proud.


  1. Heart – bursting pride here.
    When you read this as a Grandparent it’s like listening to your favourite music piece – but in stereo ( two speakers ) .

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