There is an almost five-year-old
living with us. He’s great. He likes to talk. He loves jig saws, PAW Patrol and a bowl of
fruit. He is also very partial to a Kinder Joy.
He likes to sleep. He usually has a three-hour nap, once maybe
twice a week. Yes, this means he is
bright eyed and bushy tailed at proper bedtime and it always means I get into
his bed with him until he falls asleep.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I’m still there.
I love this. I love when he opens his eyes in the middle
of the night and sees me there. He
smiles, reaches out to pat my cheek before falling back to sleep. In the morning when he wakes and sees me, he
says, “these are the best mornings.”
He was very fond of his cot and
resisted the “big bed” for a long time.
The very last of our boys to make that leap and it was the biggest
leap. He wasn’t keen on toilet training
either; using every trick in the book to get out of it. “I’m still too little and I will do it when I
am older. Maybe 6.” “I don’t need to. I have my nappies.”
Of course that day did eventually
happen and he was so delighted and pleased with himself declaring the bathroom
“not so scary after all.”
Another item of baby paraphernalia still
knocking around is the buggy. It doesn’t
get used much but gets an outing every now and again all the same. Truth be told, sometimes the six-and-a-half-year-old
will steal a sneaky ride in it.
More recently the small boy commented
that he hasn’t been carried in a long time.
This wasn’t strictly true as a day on the trampoline after a long winter
saw him wake with sore legs and I helped him downstairs. By carrying him in my arms. If he neglects to wear shoes on a school run
and it is raining, he will also get a half drag/half carry into the house.
In the morning he tells me he can do
it himself when I try to help him with his shoes. He dresses himself and brushes his own teeth,
allowing me to polish them when he is finished.
He loves to hoover the floors for me and he is in seventh heaven if I fill
the sink with soapy water and ask him to wash up. He likes to take items out of the pinger (microwave
to you and me) and is great at putting the proper items in the recycling bin.
Because he was my last baby I was free
from the burden of weaning and as far as I was concerned this one could
breastfeed until he was four. Five even. I placed the decision in his hands. Turns out I wasn’t prepared for him pushing
me away when he was only about 15 months old.
I can’t actually remember feeding him the previous night but that bright
sunny day and my boobs with corners will never be forgotten. He was done and happy to be. I had to go with that.
He likes Weetabix for his breakfast. He likes me to feed it to him. And I do this gladly. It’s probably the only “baby” thing left that
he likes me to do for him. The day will
come when he picks up the spoon and eats his “crunchy” breakfast himself.
He can’t pronounce the letter R. But he can use words like “extremely” “cautious”
“decision” “confused” and “expect.” He recognises
his name written down and knows his numbers.
He can do simple addition.
He can do lots of things. And he can’t and/or won’t do others. And you know what? I am going with this flow.
Because you see, all of the above were
the first of the lasts. The last time he
slept in a cot. The last time he used a
nappy. The last time he needed me to do up
When he asks me to help him with his
breakfast for the last time, when he learns how to pronounce the letter R and
possibly, when he goes to Big School at the end of August in just a short 6 months,
it means there are no more babies in this house.
The last of the firsts. Bitter sweet. But no stopping them.