My baby turned 18 this week.
I can’t believe where the time has gone.
Those first moments of his life where the cord was wrapped tightly around his neck, the oxygen units in the room failed, as did the mobile canister. Those minuets felt like hours, before the limb, blue little bundle took his first cry.
And in that second he stole my heart.
He was born 4 months after his dad had been involved in a near fatal driving accident. My birth plan was more concerned with how he would manager than it was about me or my baby.
He was such a happy and smiley little lad. So chilled and laid back.
He had his big sister wrapped around his little finger from the moment she met him.
I’d always seen my K as being quite small for her age compared to her peers. But the day she came to visit her litter brother she looked like she’d grown overnight.
So big and strong compared to this fragile little thing that meowled and snuffled in his crib.
And I say fragile little thing. He was 9lb 10. And I swear he had the biggest head in the world of babies. My undercarriage never did quite recover from that day.
As he grew up, his dad’s health returned, so it was often K and her dad off on the playground equipment, whilst I sat with my boy. Fascinated that once again I had created such a beautiful and perfect little miracle.
It’s amazing what some bodies can do.
it felt like me and him against the world at times.
Now don’t get me wrong. Raising a boy wasn’t always easy. His hormone spurts were very different to his sister’s, and for a time I really worried for his future.
His first few months at nursery he’d cry and wail as I dropped him off. Always until one of the carers picked him up. It was always the same carer and it took me a while to figure out. He’d only stop screaming and crying the moment he snuggled his head into her voluptuous breast.
In primary school we experience the same reluctance and crying each time I dropped him off. We were always the last to class, and it was stressfull.
And this reluctance turned to violence for a time.
I even asked our local community police officer to get involved after he once tried to stab a school friend in the eye with a pencil.
I worried I’d created a monster.
But now he’s 18. He’s officially a grown man. And I couldn’t be prouder. He’s kind, he’s considerate and he’s bloody funny.
He’s a phenomenal cook and is relevantly sufficient at looking after himself ahead of his new adventures at Uni in the autumn.
He’s a fierce and loyal friend to those he allows near him.
He’s protective of me and his big sister, he has a heart of gold when he’s not being distracted by his mobile phone, and is great at hugs. His 6ft 2 frame helps with that. A hug that once you’re encapsulated, you feel safe, and it lets the toughness of the world all fade away.
He’s going to make someone a very lucky partner one day.
And whilst there are days that he can be a complete twat. I love my baby boy and am proud of the man that he’s become.
