A letter to my daughter.

To my daughter,

This weekend, your Mum and I went to our friends' wedding. It was a beautiful day, and we were so proud of you. Everybody thought you were amazing. Which you are. You inspired them all to want to have babies of their own. I didn't tell them that there's no way their babies could ever be as excellent as you. Sadly, I spent a little too long drinking in the sun, so I'm slightly jaded today.

Also this weekend, we watched two films which made me feel very sentimental. I hope that one day you'll read this and, if you do, I hope you'll forgive me for being a bit tired and emotional.

Both of the films we watched were based on books, which I also hope that one day you'll read. But for now, I'll tell you a bit about them and why they made me think about you. The first one was called The Road. It's a very sad story, but it's also very beautiful, because it's all about how much a daddy will do to look after his child, even when everything else has gone really wrong. Making sure you're ok will always be my number one priority.

The second film was called Where the Wild Things Are. It's all about a child who's a bit naughty sometimes, but really he's just frustrated because he's got a better imagination than anybody else. In the end, his own imagination helps him see that the people he loves, love him too. If I hadn't read this book, and watched this film, I might never have realised something very important: I must always encourage you to use your imagination (as long as I don't think you'll get hurt) because that's the best way to have fun. Sometimes grown ups forget how important having fun is, but I promise I'll try not to. You can hold me to that.

Love from Daddy.

Talking

Here are some things that our daughter has mentioned:

Dagenham

Pete

Manga

Gang

Ge (not a real word. Yet)

Kay

Ugly

Pride and prejudice.

One change fatherhood has caused in me is that I pay attention to other babies now. Not in a sinister way: I just mean that I acknowledge their existence, really. Previously I was a bit scared of any children I'm not related to, which I think is fairly normal for a young gentleman, prior to his initiation into parenthood. I've always been a bit shy, but the age group with whom I would go to the greatest lengths to avoid eye contact was the youngest one.

Now this has changed. Working in retail, I regularly encounter younglings, so it has been easily noticeable to me that I suddenly consider myself part of an exclusive club, whose admittedly large number of members know and understand the secrets of communicating with and understanding babies. I now shamelessly grin, wave and coo at every possible opportunity.

This behaviour seems to be deemed acceptable by the parents, so I assume it is normal. I think the reason people such as myself conduct ourselves in this way is because we want to show off. "I too am proven to be capable of reproduction," we are saying with these demonstrations of our ability to interact with the fruits of others' loins, "I can do this because I have also made one." Which is fair enough really. Of all the things to be vain about, the perpetuation of one's genes is one of the more acceptable.

But there's also a competitive element. I think it's human nature to compare what's yours with what's not. This may be a recent - and not necessarily admirable - development in our evolution, caused, perhaps, by our shallow consumer culture. Or it may be a more fundamental instinct. This is for anthropologists to speculate upon. But it seems to be a ubiquitous trait, the consequence of which is that, while I am grinning, waving and cooing at all these babies, I am making instant judgements on their size, beauty, alertness, intelligence and general potential to be a successful member of the species. And as I jump to these wild extrapolations, I am comparing them to those I have made about my own daughter.

And she always wins.

I try to be as objective as I can, but in all honesty I judge my daughter to be the most beautiful, amusing and adorable creature ever produced by biology. This is a worrying portent of a tendency in me towards competitive parenting. But there is little I can do. I'll try to rein it in by the time she starts school, because I don't wish to be that annoying parent that the others don't talk to (although I think your child has to be called Tarquin for you to truly achieve that status). Sadly though, I fear it's beyond my control: My child is quite clearly better than anyone else's.