It is not really the case that everyone else’s babies look the same. It is the case, though, that whenever I see a baby, now that my two are in double figures, I first of all see my two as babies like the child’s face over the sun in the Teletubbies. Then I see the actual baby on display and it is always of course a disappointment that it is not one of mine. Of the many surprises that fatherhood brought, none was as overwhelming as the pride, amazement and admiration I felt for my two when they did things for the first time. It is often said that the harsh reality is that all of these moments are most intense with the first born but in my experience it is a myth that the same feelings do not return with number two. The feelings are just the same. The surprise alone is dulled by repetition. In the case of my daughter, the youngest, her first words seemed especially miraculous. Did she say dada first? Did she say mamma first? The question debated and subconsciously elevated to a choice. Who did she love more? Who did she want more? But in fact, her first word was “Fruits”. And when she reminds me of this it leaves me looking at the floor. For my son, the eldest, the first memory is of his first steps. His little legs pushing out from his nappied waist, until, his face red, he manages a step forward. Every part of him, except one hand, strains forward. That hand, holds up his nappy. He. Will. Walk. He. Might. Talk. One day. But, today: He. Will. Walk. As would later often say: “All by myself”. Every child makes their first move and every child makes their first sound and for every parent there is nothing to compare. Objectively speaking, no babies ever did either of things as impressively as my kids did.