Dear all, when you have young children, how often do you find yourself wishing they would grow up? How often have I wished that for our little latecomer… Finally walking, finally out of nappies, finally able to say what’s hurting, finally sleeping through the night… As incredibly sweet as the first few months and years are, they’re just as exhausting. 24/7 care, too little sleep, always a child in your arms. How often do we then hear: “It gets easier when they’re older.” And in many ways that’s true (and in others, not at all, is it?).
For me personally, the first year with a baby was always the hardest – so many emotions, so many overwhelming moments, so much love, so little sleep, such a physical adjustment. For me, the first milestone was always when you could stand the children up without them falling over. I found that a huge relief in everyday life. Like standing the child next to the car to put the shopping bags in the boot. Not having the child in my arms non-stop or lying on the floor was brilliant.
And of course, their first words and potty training are incredible milestones that have made our lives easier. Just like sleeping through the night – though I can’t exactly celebrate that with my youngest yet, as No. 4 still doesn’t sleep through the night – quite unlike his older siblings, who had long since done so by the age of three (and not sleeping through the night at 44 really feels very different from at 30!)
What I do manage much better with the latecomer than with the older ones, though, is living in the moment and taking all these big and small challenges in my stride. Because I know things will get better and because I know this is my last child. Instead of thinking “Grow up already!”, I’m probably feeling much more like “Don’t grow up so fast!”
The youngest isn’t a baby anymore
Over the last few weeks, I’ve looked at the youngest several times and said: “Blimey, look at everything he can do already. And how big he is. Can time slow down a bit?”
Suddenly, he looks so huge when he’s asleep; everything babyish has vanished. He whizzes around on his balance bike like the wind and wants to learn to ride a proper bike as soon as possible. He tells stories about lava, dinosaurs and volcanoes, how he flies into space in rockets or chases thieves with the police. All of a sudden, he’s singing along to lines from songs his siblings are listening to. He asks a good friend if he can come and stay over. He sits there quite casually at the dining table, tucking into pizza like a grown-up.
And me? I feel a twinge in my heart. Stay little for a bit longer. Keep loving me so unconditionally, keep holding my hand in your little one. I don’t want to be pregnant again, I don’t want to have a baby again (though – just ONE more day with a newborn…). But I really do enjoy having a little child still, a nursery-age child with all the parties, outings, craft sessions (and the viruses too, I know…).
Three-year-olds are just so bloody cute. And funny. And no matter how big and old he grows up to be, he’ll probably always be a bit of my baby. The other day, when I was putting his pyjamas on after his bath and the legs of his trousers were already too short again, I said: „When did you actually get so big? You’re my baby, after all.” He replied: “I’m not a baby, I’m already big. Not really big, but not really small either!” And that was exactly it. No longer a baby, no longer small, but (thankfully) not quite big yet either.
As much as I love my teenagers, and as tough as the early days with the latecomer sometimes were – hearing a freshly bathed three-year-old say to me: „Mummy, you’re sooooo sweet!“ is probably the greatest gift you can receive…
