A letter to my six year old….

To my beautiful boy,

Wow, So this week marks your sixth birthday. Six! I know, it’s not as though you haven’t been ticking the days off the chart we made together three weeks ago or asking me incessantly for the last (at least) two weeks “how many sleeps now Mummy?” This is a big deal. Huge. We’ve had the chats about whether the birthday fairy (yep, that’s a thing in our house) got the memo about exactly what you’d like for your special day and checking that the birthday cake is definitely going to be chocolate. We’ve dug out the birthday T shirt (again, a thing in our house – a “tradition” that was started two years ago by default when the birthday shirt I bought arrived in a size big enough to last you until possibly your ninth birthday so we now obviously have to wheel it out every single year) and we’ve set everything in place to make it a special one.

It’s as much a special day for us as well as you, you see. At the risk of sounding like a #blessed Instagram Mummy, your birthday really does mark the day our lives changed forever. A few years before you came along, your Mummy and Daddy were told they could never have a baby and we found ourselves going through a really long time of doctors appointments, a hell of a lot of tears, a frustrating amount of frustration, the lowest lows imaginable but then ultimately, miraculously, the news we never thought we’d hear – that we were expecting you.

The morning that you came into this world started with me watching the news, completely wide eyed at what was going on in the world. Riots, fighting, looting – all the things that made me question what kind of world we live in, let alone bring a tiny baby into. But I had a job to do. I had what the doctors thought was an enormous baby (I wasn’t just pregnant, I was comedy-huge) to deliver and my eyes were watering at the very thought of it.

Now I won’t bore you with the details of your birth, you’re six after all and the last thing you need to know just yet are the finer points of all those sorts of shenanigans. All I’ll say is the day involved a very tasty McDonalds meal for Mummy (Big Mac – large, nuggets – nine and a Diet Coke, just to balance things out) a bet on the horses for Daddy (strangely he didn’t win, funny that) and the kind of thunderstorm that made the sky go black and Daddy make references to The Omen shortly before the doctors decided that Mummy had to be taken into theatre and you made your grand entrance shortly before 8pm that evening.

And the monster baby that my enormous pregnant belly promised me turned out to be the teeniest tiniest 5lb 7oz bundle of you. (Yep, it would seem that Mummy had just put on almost three stone single handedly, go me.) Hold tight for the huge cliche but my world did stand still for a few seconds when I held you for the first time and I made all my promises to you to keep you safe and have a ridiculous amount of fun together for ever and ever. I think that first night we spent together in hospital was the loveliest night of my whole life. I would pick you up, stare at you, cry a few little tears of joy, feed you, take what would be the first of the billion and twelve selfies we’ve so far amassed, (we’re absolute pro’s now six years on) pop you back in your cot and then repeat until Daddy came back the following morning. I got absolutely no sleep and I didn’t care a bit. I’d waited way too long for all of this and I wasn’t going to let the little matter of getting no sleep get in the way. (Little did I know I wasn’t going to get much for the next six years and counting anyway….)

We took you home a few days later and you met your first best mate – Lily dog. She is and always has been your partner in crime in football, hunting for biscuits and taking up all the bed. She has also had the unfortunate honour over the years of being blamed for more than a few “japes” that she wasn’t necessarily responsible for. (I think you’ll find Schnauzers don’t have opposable thumbs and therefore couldn’t possibly be the perpetrator of drawing on the sofa with your favourite felt tip….just saying.)

You also proved to be a natural at sport and pretty much take after everything your Daddy does at an early age. From swinging a golf club before you could even walk to kicking a football at every opportunity, I’m very glad to say you don’t take after your completely non-sporty Mummy in that department. No, from me you’ve got your short temper – sorry about that, not forgetting your completely bonkers sense of humour. (Again, sorry…..)

You see I thought it was a good idea when I told you that our central heating was powered by a Dragon called Bob. It seems that you followed this “unusual” imagination of mine when you told me that Fat Cat over the road comes and plays football with the squirrels in the garden when we go out. (Apparently Lily dog is the referee as it can often get completely out of hand. As it would I suppose.)

These days you make me giggle and want to tear my hair out in equal measure. You’ve taught me a good few things though. Like not to bother trying to plant nice flowers in the garden because they’ll get trashed by not one football but seven. Or how small boys can get through a LOT of hair gel because “hair matters Mum”. How no matter how many cute clothes Mummy puts in your wardrobe, you’ll just want to wear one football kit constantly. Or how no matter how cool you are in front of your friends, doing the dabbing, the bottle flipping and being just a little bit cocky, you’ll still be snuggled up to Mummy that night with your favourite teddy that hasn’t left your side since you were tiny and sucking your thumb.

Happy birthday my crazy boy. I hope one day you’ll read this knowing that when Mummy was doing her “writing stories” thing, this one was for you. xx

 

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