It occurs to me that once you become a parent, all children are slightly more interesting. Whereas previously I recoiled in horror when a small child stumbled towards me, a glob of spittle dangling provacatively from it’s lips, it’s hands a gloss with jamminess. Now I give each child I see a knowing smile.
I know now that the reason I do this is that in every child I see a bit of my son. Him when he’s eight kicking a ball in the park. Him at two babbling incomprehensible, him when he was a new born, all pink and wriggly and helpless.
