You're still impressing me, fella

 and I'm still here to be impressed. 

You're potty trained, and I'm potty-mouthed. I have to get a handle on that, and am learning, slowly. 

Today is the tenth anniversary of your Grandma Sue, my Mum, dying of stomach and bowel cancer. I've had a hard day. It's incredibly cold - unseasonally chilly Arctic winds are having their way with us at the moment. The radio says the pandemic - or at least, the UK's response to it - is going well, and restrictions are about to be lifted. It's been a tough year for so many people. The suicide rate's jumped, divorce ditto, and London's a comparative ghost town. Meanwhile, you're really enjoying yourself, most of the time. You really liked my car-dancing on the way to nursery earlier, nodding your head like a real hip-hop fan. I should have video'd it. 

A couple of days ago, I posted something I shouldn't have - I was really worn out, and emotional; I get that way more and more these days. You were being really testing, and I had had enough, if I'm honest. I'm sorry. Having a baby was supposed to be the greatest thing I did, and for long periods, it has felt really crushing, and has exposed things about me, and my responses to situations, that I don't like. It makes me sad to think that I frighten you, or you feel threatened by me, because of all the things, that set of emotions is the last I'd want to engender in you. 

History says my Dad was just the same, and I ended up not liking him for it, and I was occasionally scared of him. I was more scared of my Mum, who could take things out on me that were none of my doing - it's not my fault I looked like a small version of the man she divorced, is it. Nevertheless, here I am, heading off down that road of comparing you - a small baby boy - with my fully grown-ass parents, who both loved me and gave me a great start in life before leaving me early. It's all history repeating. I realise that it's on me to change all this, and be better, but I'm racked with insecurity around all this 'take charge', 'be positive' stuff, because it's the sort of thing that my Dad complained about me not doing when I was a kid. Subsequently, I've clearly sought some kind of approval from father-figure types at work, too - older men who love my work and can find nothing wrong with me.  No idea why.

Aim high, believe in what you're doing, eat well, exercise and look after the money, and you'll be good. I love you, my little man. I love you.