My first born baby turned three today. I’m sitting here feeling so full … full of cake most certainly, but my heart feels even fuller than that.
All week I’d been stressing. About work, about the fact I hadn’t bought all his present yet, attempting to make cupcakes to take to kindy before realising I had no eggs, that I never seem to have enough time. The critical voice was kicking into over drive. Bad mum, bad friend, bad worker. Tsk, Tsk!
But as I sit here, all that seems so meaningless. My boy got his presents, the cupcakes got made, my work got done, we spent Saturday night making him a rocket cake. The lead up wasn’t perfect, things had to be cast aside, stripped back until only the important parts remained.
And today there were only important things. Excitement, love, laughter, food, fun and family. After opening his presents, my boy said ‘thank you’ and then ‘kiss’ as he came up to each of us, his arms out stretched and planted the most delightful loving kiss on my cheek.
We sang happy birthday and I felt my eyes misting up as I watched my happy guy relish in his moment in the spotlight. Those moments undo me. Watching my boy doing something totally normal and small in the scheme of things can seem so big and wondrous to me. It reminds how far we’ve travelled together, how much he’s learned and that I, just by being there, somehow had a hand in that.
On his third day on this earth, in my hospital cubicle surrounded by flimsy fabric he slept while I wept and stressed about what the future held. I was confused and scared, was I up to the task of being this baby’s mother?
And here he is, three years old … and I weep because he can sing, that he says pu-lease in the cutest little voice, that he takes himself to the toilet and pulls his own pants down. All my early worries seem so meaningless now … necessary, but meaningless.
So now my boy is three, growing up before my very eyes and I couldn’t be prouder or happier. Happy birthday little man! xx