4

Nina turned 4 yesterday. She was so sick yesterday that we didn't do much to celebrate (and fortunately her party is next weekend). Today we bought her her first pedal bike, which she rode all the way home from Finsbury Park. You can tell that Annika was aware that the fuss was not particularly about her and that she didn't get a new bike. 
   I had told Nina a couple of months ago that if she got really good on her balance bike (no pedals) we'd buy her a pedal one for her birthday, and she's been out practising, and is now really good with balancing. So we took the training wheels off after we got back, and she can ride fine while pedalling, but she can't start pedalling yet. It'll take some trying, which she got too tired for, but I'm excited about her learning. 
   So 4 years ago today we were in Bristol with our tiny first baby, feeding, and feeding, and feeding, and feeding. And recovering from labour, in my case. I remember it started getting light at about 3:00 or 3:30; I'd know what time it was by the shade of blue, sitting up all night in that living room, looking at the fireplace, the ugly sofas (but not yet the yellow and green slide, which later because a fixture). I remember Amps and Andrew taking her out for a few hours and those 3 hours of sleep feeling just so good. I remember the first time she cried and it wasn't hunger (a few weeks in), and we didn't know what else to try. We've kind of made a fuss of her birthday but it's actually not because I think she cares that much, though she cares somewhat, of course. It's because I'm pretty amazed at myself, having done something this intense for four whole years and not being quite entirely nuts by now. I remember the midwives telling me to enjoy her, and thinking 'huh what?' and everyone telling me how fast it goes, and wondering how if it goes so fast, can one night take so bloody endlessly long? And it doesn't go by all that fast, really, it just goes by and then it is completely irreversible in a way that old times with old friends or old places aren't quite; the context of that tiny baby in that room in that year and time of your life just can't be revisited (such as it was; that summer was wet and everything we had went mouldy causing much anxiety on Amps' part, and some amount of wiping of suitcases and bleaching things and tossing of shoes and rueing the day we ever moved to this damp place, on mine...). 
   Four years on, Nina has her little accent, is perfectly capable of telling me what's a jumper vs what's a cardigan, thinks those little red bugs with black dots on them are ladybirds, and wants a chocolate cake in the shape of a train, which will of course be a Bakerloo line train, because chocolate is brown (and for those of you not in the know, the Bakerloo line is drawn in brown on the tube maps). A native. Well, all that, and she wears a sundress in June and doesn't feel cold. 
  Happy Birthday Nina. I'm so proud of you.