One of the best things about children is when they love the things you love. This does not happen as much as I had hoped!
But me and my oldest agree on one thing at least: musical theatre. Mr HB is delighted. Of course he isn’t, he HATES musical theatre.
I’m taken back to days on the bus from Cupar to St Andrews, nights huddled around the stereo at Scottish Youth Theatre, or forcing my long-suffering sister to play me songs from the shows. I used to almost have a photographic memory: I could learn lyrics after two hearings.
Now, I’m a bit slower to learn – so I join in with the lines of Hamilton, or Wicked, that I know, and my oldest reels off reams of them, all by heart. A real chip off the old block. Poor kid!
The warmth of his comfortable weight.
His hand fiddles
with my thumbnail,
his feet dangle
to my knees.
His hair as
soft and fluffy as
the inside of his favourite jumper,
a perfect mess of haywire strands,
always in need of a cut.
His breathing inhales, exhales through my body:
lift, then relax.
a view of angelic eyelashes.
He leans into my chest,
being pinned to the chair
by this sweetest of distractions,
all the other things I could be doing,
should be doing,
I stay here.
Let me savour this moment,
for those for whom the moment never comes,
for the years and years beyond this day
when he won’t sit on my knee anymore.
And 140 words is not enough,
to describe this,
of my son
sitting on my knee.