Thursday 17 October 2013


There is a time in every parental journey when one catches a glimpse of their young child and realizes that their pudgy-faced baby is no longer; suddenly the mere sight of cheekbones on their little faces makes one utterly depressed. It is a sobering moment I can assure you.

It’s a complicated emotion as on one hand, once your child hits three you are delighted with the fact that you can actually have conversations with them that make some sort of sense (not always I assure you) and give directions that they actually follow. Reason becomes a distinct possibility and there are even moments of rationale on your child's part that leave you speechless (the King at the moment loves to inform me that wasting food wastes money. He clearly has inherited my waste not gene; then again he was trying to shove 30 crackers into the back of his toy dump truck as he was saying this). Coupled with all the grown up tasks like dressing and feeding themselves and the King's continual mantra of 'mama, I can do it myself!'' His other very grown up preoccupation is to ask me constantly what I’m doing ‘on Saturday.’ That seems to be the chosen day at the moment, followed by what am I doing ‘next week.’ Although, he doesn't seem as interested by the answer as the question.

Making matters worse, wherever we go lately, people are remarking on how much older and adult the King looks. This of course makes me mildly cringe on the inside and want to maturely retort, NUH UH! As I then clutch my uterus wondering if it has one last go in it at my ripe old age of….oh hell, what’s in a number? Then I suddenly find myself having irrational thoughts as I ruminate over a second child (against all better judgment) and tell myself that who needs sleep, newborns are so cute and immobile; I mean really, how hard can two kids be (ha!)? Thank god, I then get a dose of reality when my friends who have small babies come over and I find myself staring at them at a total loss as to what to do with them, as I plop them on the floor in a pile of stuff hoping that will take care of the entertaining conundrum (oh how we forget what the hell we did the first time around).

Of late, it is more than evident (to my husband especially) that I am fighting the segue from baby to small person syndrome. I look through photos of the King constantly, making my husband stare at the King’s fat little face (by the 50th photo, he rolls his eyes and takes my laptop away from me); I find myself wanting to cuddle the King more, and even try to weasel my way into his bed (he will put up with this for awhile and then tells me to leave) and of course when he’s sleeping I steal every kiss he refuses to give me in his waking hours. I figure, a few more years and kisses will be a thing of the past and I’ll be the embarrassment he will make wait around the corner at school drop offs. 

Ah well, nothing some dark chocolate and baby photos can't fix.

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