Just recently I have been rooting through lots of old photos (thanks to that meme) and getting all teary eyed over pictures of my children when they were babies.
They’re 4 and 7 now. Not babies. They don’t need me to dress them or strap them in their car seats or hold their hands down the stairs.
They can shower on their own, brush their own teeth, make their own breakfast.
They play Monopoly (and thrash me), invent ‘stuff’ and tell me when dinner isn’t up to scratch.
I don’t have babies any more and I kinda miss it.
I miss them needing me, I miss the smell of their baby heads, I miss having to wrap them up all snuggly in their buggies to protect their delicate skin from the weather.
I miss holding their little bodies in my arms, I miss stroking their downy necks, I miss the peaceful joy of those quiet moments in a darkened room just before they drop off.
Every now and again Dan calls me ‘mum’ and a little alarm goes off in my heart because I want to always be ‘mummy’. Mummy means he’s still my little boy.
They’re growing up too fast.
My son has started asking about ‘sexecation’, my daughter knows who Hannah Montana is.
Where have my babies gone?
Because one day you will be in my shoes.