The man I love totally, completely, with every corner of my heart, is my daughter’s father.
Ok, he had a head start, I loved him before she was born. But that man was flawed. He was difficult and damaged and, all too often, demanding. And I loved him for all of those reasons. But this man is perfect.
I know he is perfect because I see him through my daughters eyes. He is funny. Loud and wild and uncontrollable laughter is the sound track to the time they spend together. He is carefree. No talk of work or money. He is her teacher (although there was a time I feared all he would teach her was to lift her t-shirt up to pat her stomach and to stick her tongue out and make the silly noise that has since become their call to war!). He is caring, gentle and soft. He can calm her when no one else can. He is thoughtful and naughty and spoils her rotten. He is all the things I fell in love with digitally remastered and reimagined and presented in glorious technicolor!
And he is absolutely besotted with her.
From time to time he will ask me if I am ever going to get fed up with him and my answer is always the same. I tell him I get fed up with him every day! But how could I ever have enough of this man?
For I remember how, in those scary early days, when we were forming the blueprints for the parents we would become, I took my cues from him as he made up the words to familiar nursery rhymes only he could forget whilst gently bouncing the most important thing I had in his arms.
And I knew that whatever happened we would be ok. We had him.
I know that perfection is impossible. Those blueprints we made are just plans. We will get it wrong. And make mistakes. We already do. Sometimes because we are ultimately flawed. Sometimes because we don’t know any better.
But I will never forget the way she looks at him now: a look of pure love that talks straight to my heart.