"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week for 2014."
Big: You'd had such a cranky day, with a very short nap. It was supposed to be an early night. Then Mumma made chocolate custard. And then she gave the you the spoon to lick. And then what was once an early night faded to a distant memory.
Tiny: That mouth of yours. Forever munching. Chomping. Slobbering. I suppose it feels nice against those gums of yours. In fact it must. Your careful and purposeful grip of Daddy's finger tells its own tale. Mine.