Literary Baby*

  My baby is going to b e a poet when she grows up.

Actually, she could be a basketballer. Or a scientist. Or a hairdresser. Or work in a lolly shop. Or make necklaces out of pieces of broken vintage crockery. 

I don't actually mind. As long as she's happy, I don't mind what job she has (unless it's TOO dangerous - if she decided to become one of those people who disables landmines in scary countries, I might have a few quibbles about that).

But last night, Tiger did show signs of a future love of things literary.

It was The Tall Man's book launch and it was decided that Tiger should attend. Sure, it would mean over an hour of standing around, during which Tiger could not ROLL and WRIGGLE. Sure, much of that hour would be taken up by poetry readings and speeches, during which Tiger could not SQUEAL and MAKE LOUD BUBBLE-BLOWY NOISES. But Tiger needs to get used to going to events like this. She'll be going to many more in the future!

And so we went along, to the upstairs space in the Former Employer Bookshop. And Tiger was duly fussed over by men and women, young and old, who gooed and gahed and stroked her little cheek and held her little hand and were rewarded with stellar Tiger Smiles. And all was good and easy during this phase of the evening because Tiger had Lots Of People to look at and be distracted by.

But then the "proper bit" of the event began. Speeches. Poetry. And Tiger ...

Was awesome. 

She looked up at me, and around, and silently took it all in. When the poetry was going on, she listened intently. When the clapping happened, she kicked her legs and giggled - Tiger Applause. 

There was not one grizzle. Not one squeal. Not in the whole hour we stood still and silent.

And I was so proud. 

My little girl is growing up. And she seems to like poetry. Well, she likes good poetry, anyway. And The Tall Man makes darn good poetry (read more about it here).

And Tiger might end up being an acrobat, or a florist, or a milliner, or a quantity surveyor, but she might also share a love of literature that has been passed down from both her mother's parents and her father's.

One day, we might share our favourite books, the way I do with my parents and parents-in-law.

Until then, I might start interspersing Hairy MacLary with some Auden or Keats or Hughes. See how she goes. Sharing poetry with my daughter could well be another one of the lovely things we do together.

Or it might be a dismal failure. She might just have a crush on The Tall Man. Whatever the case, last night, with my daughter, in a room full of words, was bliss-makingly lovely.

* The title of this blog post comes from this song. Which I will now have stuck in my head For All Eternity.