I wrote this on Mother’s Day three years ago

Reading it back now it’s as though it was yesterday.  I can’t believe how grown up he has become already.  I hope you all enjoyed Mother’s Day with your families yesterday, and enjoy my reminiscing:

He stomps in from the autumn sunshine, his face ruddy from fresh air.  His school uniform pressed and clean at the start of the day, is covered in mud and grass.  I’ve been watching him through the window, meandering and chattering, lost in a private world of play.  At the back door now, his brown eyes shine.  He has come to deliver a message.

Despite his four years, he still has a toddler’s physique.  His round face and chubby cheeks compel me to pinch and squeeze.  His chunky body and podgy limbs still echo the baby that he once was.  He is cheekily, happily, properly gorgeous.  This boy.  This weeble.  This naughty, irresistible Englishman.

He wobbles round the back door, revealing trousers at half mast, and a fat little fist pulling at his pants.  He is concentrating, forehead pulled into a frown, soft lips pursed in thought.  He pauses, searching for the words, desperate to connect the sensation to the action.  Then: “I need a wee!”

With all the speed that wellies and trousers will allow, he hobbles past, hitching and stumbling.  His fat little bottom winks at me as it wiggles past, heading for the stairs.  He’s on his way to relief.   To learning the rituals of a proper grown up boy.  No more nappies, no more baby wipes.  He is on his way to independence and he is triumphant.

He pauses in passing and says: “Can you hold this for me?” I reach to meet his outstretched hand.  I am so proud.  I will keep safe his little garden treasure until his business is done and he can return to play.  And this will always be my role.  With unquestioning loyalty, I will reach out and accept whatever his arms have to offer.

Into my hand he plonks a little, round, sticky turd.  And then he clambers upstairs to finish the job.

“The compelled mother loves her child as the caged bird sings.  The song does not justify the cage nor the love the enforcement.”

Too late Germaine.  I found you and I read you.  But I was too late.