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He sits in his high-chair, mesmerised by the muted TV, idly picking pieces of pasta from his bowl and holding them, as if in thought, before either putting them to his mouth or casting them to the floor, presumably according to some bizzare rule system which my mind cannot comprehend.
Later, he crawls around the living room, investigating the surfaces of the tables which he still needs to stand - but only just - and the forbidden fruit thereon. A cup or remote control is snatched rudely from him as he picks it up, and his face creases, tears start to form, but he is suddenly distracted.
Stepping backwards, he forgets to keep his legs straight and falls to the ground, making a soft bumping sound as nappy hits carpet. He starts crawling to the doorway at break-neck speed, hurling himself at the half-clotheshorse that imprisons him, climbing up it in an impossible break for freedom.
He stands there, hands on the very top of the railings, unable to climb them, and stares out at the world beyond. The long, dingy carpeted hallway, leading to the bedrooms, and to the forbidden bathroom. Not as forbidden, however, as the kitchen, which lies enticingly opposite, brightly lit, full of excitingly high countertops.
As he turns back, I pick him up, my hands in his armpits, watching him watch me, and giggle in the anticipation. Gently, I throw him into the air, high enough that his momentum counterbalances his weight, but never losing contact. He giggles and writhes, and I introduce a side-to-side swaying motion before pulling him to my chest, flipping him and holding him upside-down in front of his mother, who plays peekaboo with him for as long as he keeps grinning.
Eventually, he'll grow tired, and start to complain, but for now he's happy. I think of the times I've spent with him - holding him in my arms as he stretches and yawns, puffy-faced from sleep, or watching him shriek with joy as his Mummy pushes him on the swing outside. I can honestly say that I love this child, who will never call me Daddy.
It's right this way. I'm not his father. His father's one of my best friends. But I sometimes wish that I could claim some responsibility for the existence of this beautiful, wonderful child.
Ah, well... maybe, someday, I'll have a child of my own. Hopefully, it'll be Jude's half-sibling. I do really want children, a family, someone to be a father to. Maybe not just yet.
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