3rd December 2013
Dear Emma,
I’m currently writing this with a full French press of coffee and a Chelsea bun as I watch Miles, trapped in baby prison (aka the Sweateroo) which has been the best £30 we’ve ever spent. You’re with Poppy at soft play. So we all know who the loser is in this scenario.
After my coffee I might settle down with the Sports section of the newspaper—JOKE—I will obviously clean the flat like the excellent human I am, otherwise we’ll be found in a few weeks’ time buried alive by Lego, broken crayons, and that fucking plastic elephant that seems unbreakable despite my numerous attempts on its life.
I know the last few months haven’t exactly been glamour and, yes, our conversations mostly revolve around poo, but I’m pretty happy right now. Who even are we? Me bent over a nappy studying the contents like a witch checking entrails, you fascinated by my findings—sometimes asking follow-up questions!
And things are changing again. I know you’re going to miss Hattie when she moves away and it will be strange without her round the corner but she’s not going far. And I think she needs to do it, her and Ed have been so on/off/on/off it’s good she’s finally made a decision. And I know you won’t believe me but he’s growing on me. That comment about his eyes was petty, you can’t really not trust someone because of a look. Mum used to say it about her neighbor Pauline but it was Malcolm who ended up leaving her so what did Mum know really?
Ed and how much we’ll both miss Hattie aside, I want to make plans too, get a house, start geeking out over Farrow and Ball colors. Dad’s insisted we take a share of the money from the sale of the house. I felt resistant at first, but he’s right, she would have loved to know she was helping us build a home with our own kids. I want a large kitchen with a table we can all sit round rather than a breakfast bar. I want somewhere with loads of light and room to breathe and our own bathroom so we don’t have to navigate foam letters and toy ducks to have a bath. I’m desperate for a place with adequate storage.
Before you panic I’m not going to make you leave London, move to the sticks where we know no one, and pop out another few children. I know you love London, that you love your friends, feeling at the heart of things. Trips to comedy nights at the Soho Theatre, mouths agape in the Dress Circle in the West End, weekday trips to the Tate Modern with Miles strapped to your chest, a coffee with a friend on a sunny South Bank afterward. You adore London and you really live in it, unlike some people who never leave their part of town—you don’t mind taking tubes or trains to people’s houses in the arse end of wherever, saying “I can read my book.”
I love you, Emma. I love you for your wonderful energy and your outlandish hand gestures, and the light in your eyes when you want to share something funny. I love your obsession with bad American TV (Charmed IS bad, Emma, no matter what you say, and yes you have got me into it but that doesn’t make it a good program). I love you even when you get caught up in another plan or scheme and just expect me to fall into line with two seconds’ notice (*coughs* the petition about gendered clothing).
I love the way you are with Poppy and Miles. Your endless patience as Poppy learns to read, mouthing the words at her encouragingly until she gets it right. I know it is taking up all your energy not racing ahead or doing it for her. I love the way you wear Miles around the house when you’re hoovering, or when you’re settled on the sofa, your hand stroking the soft down of his hair as you read and he sleeps.
I love the way you fit neatly into me when we hug or kiss. I can’t get to sleep now without you in bed with me. When I feel the mattress sink down I automatically reach for the soft warmth of you, for the weight of your arm across my chest, your breath steady on my shoulder. The smell of you.
I love everything about you, Emma Jacobs.
Seven years and no itch here,
Dan x