This time last year, our house looked like this.

 
This time last year, the tiny daughter and I were just getting to know each other. She’d had her first feed, and was asleep on me. She seemed so tiny, yet so very much her own person. I wondered how I would ever be enough for her, yet somehow I felt I would be. 

This time last year, the buttercups looked rather like this. The field across the road was covered in a sea of nodding golden flowers, a breeze taking the edge off the heat.

This time this year, the tiny daughter is rather more alert, and is enjoying birthday presents from friends and family, including the very lovely Ma Me Pa her grandpa sent (much to my delight), the animals Quercus made her, and the owl I put together back in February (I think). Happy first birthday, tiny daughter. We have enjoyed your company so much that there are no words which sufficiently articulate our ongoing joy at your presence; the best we can do is to snatch you up and snuggle you, to catch you up and cuddle you.

This time this year, the buttercups are just as good, if not better. A good metaphor.