We're officially on birthday countdown. In two weeks time I will have (gulp) a two year old, and I wonder, how did the tiny babe, barely seven pounds, suffering from post-ventouse cone head become my blonde-haired, passionate toddler boy.
The clues are there of course, the nose is the same, although he's grown into it, and those lips. But where does the rest of it come from? Less than three years ago there was a bundle of cells, how have I, have we as a family, grown it into this whole little person.
In the last two years my life has changed beyond recognition. I have new friends, a house full of toys and a previously undiscovered passion for the best bits of CBeebies. I am not the mother I thought I would be, but for almost every behaviour that disappoints me - my lack of patience and occasional resorts to fishwifery - there is something else that I'm proud of.
Two years ago T's life on the outside had not even begun, today he's played at toddler group, collected sticks in the park and politely asked for (and demolished) 'more nectarine please Mummy'. It's timely that his new favourite song is 'Happy Birthday', sung several times a day at top volume.
Heavily pregnant again, it's hard to remember how I felt two years ago today, exactly one week before my due date. Was I ironing babygro's (no, really!) or frantically trying to finish one of the home-made pictures I lovingly completed for the brand new nursery. Maybe I was nervous about the impending birth, obsessively rereading the relevant chapters in one of a large pile of baby books. Perhaps I was rubbing my bump, cursing the indigestion but secretly quite enjoying the pop, pop, pop of tiny hiccups deep inside my abdomen.
One thing is certain though, as the baby monitor snores by my side, I didn't know it would be this good.