It's been a couple of weeks since I last wrote, and a lot has happened. Three family holidays, Leo discovering confidence in the water, on a surfboard and in a skate park, and me as his dad asking myself more questions than answers. Somewhere along the way, I realised children don't wait until they feel ready, and I think there’s a valuable lesson in that for us all.

First off, I owe you an apology.

It's been two weeks since I last wrote to you, and truthfully, I’ve missed it. 

At the start of the summer, your mum and I made the decision to press pause on the podcast. We wanted to create a little more space in our lives and make sure that, above everything else, we gave you the summer you deserve.

Since then we've barely stood still. Three trips. Three different places.

Morocco came first.

Five days in Marrakech, and most of them were spent in the swimming pool. In fairness to your mum, it was her gentle patience and encouragement that built your confidence. At the start of the holiday, goggles, going underwater and anything resembling swimming weren't really on the menu. By the end, you were jumping in, disappearing beneath the surface and waving back at us through your tiny goggles while we wore a pair of children's goggles ourselves just to make you laugh.

That confidence travelled with us to Marbella.

We stayed up in the hills overlooking the coast, where there was another rooftop pool and another opportunity to keep practising. This time you had your aunties cheering you on as well. Every jump was met with applause. Every little success celebrated.

Then came Cornwall.

This time, just you and me.

Your mum stayed home for a few days to catch up on life, while we headed down to Newquay before some work with our friends at Roarsome.

We spent four days barefoot. We explored surf shops. We tested as many croissants and coffees as we could find. We went dolphin spotting, you had your first surf lesson. On your very first wave, you stood up. A few waves later, one threw you into a spectacular forward roll off the front of the board, which made me hold my breath. But you surfaced laughing.

The next day, you had your first proper skateboarding lesson.

Up until then, you'd only ever rolled around Fulham with me holding both your hands. Ten minutes into the half-pipe, you were dropping in, kissing the rails and asking to go again. Not fully unsupported, you had Coach Paul skating next to you with a handhold.

Watching you over these last few weeks has made me think about almost every decision we've made since the day you were born.

Did we send you to nursery too early?

Was nursery even the right place for you?

Have we set boundaries well, or have we moved the goalposts too often?

Is London the right place for us to raise you?

Should I step back from work and become even more present?

Should your weeks be filled with clubs and lessons, or should childhood be left alone a little longer?

The mood swings you've started having... are they simply part of being four, or are you trying to tell us something?

Am I doing a good job as your dad?

Or have I become too much of your friend?

Can you be both?

Questions like these have a habit of multiplying. Some answer themselves. Others divide into even smaller questions and ask even more of you.

But over the last few weeks, I've stumbled across one answer that seems to settle most of them.

Time together. Children don't spell love T-I-M-E. But they do experience it that way.

And I think that's why I'm finding this next chapter harder than I expected. A mum I met in Cornwall said something that's stayed with me ever since. She told me that this stage of childhood is the purest you'll ever know. The cuddles come easily. Your imagination fills almost every silence. You still reach for our hands without thinking. 

Then school begins. And slowly, almost without anyone noticing, children begin taking tiny steps away from their parents. Not because they love us any less. Because they're supposed to.

I think that's what terrifies me the most.  Not the school itself. I know we've chosen well. Not whether you'll cope. I know you'll thrive. It's the thought of giving up some of this precious time together. The three of us. If someone offered me a remote control that could freeze this chapter of our lives for just a little longer...

I'd press pause.

Right now, I'm back home in my office. The holidays are over, at least for a couple of weeks.

My desk is covered in projects waiting to be finished, invoices waiting to be paid, ideas waiting to become something real. If I'm honest, I feel slightly overwhelmed.

This morning, a friend said something to me on the phone that completely reframed my thinking.

She said, "Sometimes you just have to start before you feel ready."

I wrote that down as soon as she said it because it made me realise something.

You never waited until you felt ready. You didn't wait before jumping into the swimming pool. You didn't wait before paddling into your first wave. You didn't wait before dropping into a skateboard ramp. You just started, pressed go.

Somewhere along the way, adulthood convinces us that confidence has to come first. That one day we'll wake up feeling ready. Children seem to know something we've forgotten.

Confidence doesn't come before action. It comes because of it. Every brave thing I've ever done has started before I felt prepared. The Marathon Des Sables could be a good example of that.

Readiness doesn't arrive before the jump. It catches up with you in the air.

So whatever it is you're waiting for...

The conversation. The business. The application. The apology. The first step. Don't wait until you feel ready. Just begin.

You might discover that readiness has been following you all along.

See you next Tuesday.

Love always,

Daddy x

P.S. A few of you asked about the podcast after we announced we were taking a break.

We said we wanted to focus on our summer together and give our surrogacy journey the attention it deserves. The headlines in the press that followed told their own version of that story, which, I’ll be honest, is annoying, especially when the truth is much simpler.

We have found a surrogate, and our embryos have now been transferred to her clinic.

The next chapter of our family's story is quietly beginning.

And when the time is right, I'll tell you all about it.