He’s almost 3 and a half.
Somewhere along the line I blinked, and he was no longer a baby. That squirmy, squishy, squalling infant was suddenly a little man, full of attitude and knowledge and defiance.
My baby, my youngest, my last one – he is now a boy.
A boy who loves Lightning McQueen, Animal Mechanicals, My Little Pony (yes, I know it’s not the typical “like” of a little boy, but I don’t mind in the least), and Nemo. A boy with a voice that wants to be heard. A boy with arms that want to cuddle. A boy with defiance that loves to say “NO”!
He counts fish fingers and Nutrigrain as his favourite foods, and refuses point-blank to eat fruit or vegetables (much to my concern).
His best friend is Mason. And Ava. And Lexie. And Tallon. And Tommy. And Pooper. Yes, Pooper. Even though he can now pronounce the letter “C”, he still calls him Pooper.
He will dance, anytime and anywhere, if Gangnam Style or One Direction are playing. And he now knows the words to some of the most popular Christmas Carols. Okay, so he will FINALLY be able to sing carols THIS year when Christmas rolls around. Again.
His favourite pastimes are playing Cars, cricket, golf, watching rugby, stealing his big brother’s iPad and playing it in one of his hiding spots, and annoying his sisters.
Diecast cars are his weapon of choice.
He is growing up. Way too fast. And I don’t know if I’m really prepared for it. I still think of him as my baby. I will always think of him as my baby.
And it’s hard to let go of my baby. Of any of my babies. Oh, I know I will eventually have to, and I know it will be the best thing for them, but I certainly won’t be doing it without a fight.
I’m their mum, you know. And we mums, we fight for our kids.
To infinity and beyond.