Every gran's grandchild is the grandest.
We moan about our children, but boast about our grandchildren. Or so, I've heard.
Before my daughters were born, I dreamed of a mischievous, ginger son, with a frog in his pocket.
I have been blessed with Blake.
Blake's best cuddly animal, is his Woofie. Before he sleeps, Woofie is suffocated with hugs and kisses.
One night, a dog barked outside. Blake was in his element - Woofie was alive.
Blake likes to help around the house. Everything has a place, and he always parks his bika in the bedroom.
If I ask to speak to Blake, over the 'phone, and say: "Hello Blake," he points to himself. Ditto, if he sees a photo of himself, he points to his face, and smiles and kisses the 'photo.
After using the loo, he uses the brush to clean, scrubbing and laughing.
Misty unpacked a melted cooldrink cup from the dishwasher. Blake threw back his head, held his tummy and laughed.
He was also thrilled to he bones, flicking light switches on and off. He nearly flew out of our arms, giggling.
On one of Blake's memorable visits I heard my hair dryer full throttle, and then feet scuttling down the passage.
Blake was nowhere to be found.
Panic. "Blake, Blake, Blaake, BLAKE," No reply.
I discover a curled-up, giggling bundle under the bed.
Silence. Blake is hanging my jewellery on the door handles.
As a treat, Steven takes Blake to see some real bika's.
Blake went bananas - "Bika's! Bikaa's! Bikaaa's!", and pointed to the posters.
Even the mechanics walked in to witness the commotion.
Steven told me that Blake was offered a beer.
He can tell such porkies sometimes.