Today (October 3rd 2016) my three year old son walked up to me in the kitchen and shattered my heart. “Mummy” I heard. The word I hear perhaps two thousand times a day and am ashamed to tell you makes me flinch more times than not. I was busily tidying up the debris from the kitchen and uttered “mmm?”
“I’m not a baby anymore.” he said. Out of nowhere. Blindsided.
I looked down at him in his penguin pyjamas. His pure, pale face staring up at me. His perfect brown eyes shining, waiting for a response. I started to breathe again and felt my eyes heavy with tears forcing their way out.
“I know.” I said. And then started to cry in a way mums cry in front of their children as to not alarm them. A false smile plastered across my face, tears falling, like a deranged circus clown.
“I am a big boy now.” he continued. My body trembled as I choked out “but you’ll always be MY baby.”
‘NO.” He insisted. Not understanding the inflection. “I am not a baby.”
I nodded in agreement and sobbed for twenty minutes in the kitchen while he played with his fire engine.
I wept. He will never be a baby again. My small boy is only going to get bigger, and with each year further away. From day one pressed against my breast, to school next year.
It didn’t help matters further as ‘Always be my baby’ shuffled on to the music on my phone. Mariah belted out:
“We were as one babe, for a moment in time, and it seemed everlasting that you would always be mine.”
I sobbed again as I wailed along to the music like a bad X Factor contestant (though I was still better than Honey G).
In these times all I can do is channel my inner Mariah Carey and insist:
“You’ll always be a part of me, I’m part of you indefinitely, boy don’t you know you can’t escape me
Ooh darling ’cause you’ll always be my baby.”
He will always be my baby. I have spent the majority of the day cuddling him.
Three year olds… jeez, they can slay you.