There are so many things that I never want to forget about you as you are right now.
The richness of your imagination and creativity.
Not just your vocabulary but your conversational and debating skills.
I never want to forget your indignation at not being allowed to go to Brownies because of your age.
I hope you read this when you're older and know that you are the most incredible four year old I have ever met.
I am so very proud of you.
Am I vain?
I take little credit.
I attribute your intellect to your father.
You remind us of him.
A beautiful child, too.
The golden blonde hair that turns white in the summer.
The big, blue, all-seeing eyes.
The cheeky, knowing grin.
This is all your father, too.
The temper, that is perhaps mine.
Ask your grandmother, she will tell you the well-worn stories.
All are true, I am afraid.
The sarcasm, also.
That is me.
But the good bits?
The things that make me sit up and wonder how you are only four years old?
They are your father.
Your interest in science can probably be traced back to his mother.
As well as the sometimes-dry sense of humour.
And the penchant for a pot of tea and a slice of carrot cake.
Your metabolism also has nothing to do with me.
Your energy, athleticism and enthusiasm for all things active are pure Daddy.
As are your taste buds.
I would not eat sushi, for one.
Your love of, and aptitude for, language is down to Nanny Jan.
Perhaps your interest in books comes from me.
Your suntan, however, most definitely does not.
Oh, Jasmine, I am so very proud of you.
I hope it shows.
My words do not do you justice, my darling.
I love you.