I'd like to say it was a monumentous occasion, but we were camping, and it was actually awful. Due to wasp stings, bugs in the eye, mosquito bites, not sleeping all night because it was freezing, he was in prime form with the whining, tantruming and crying.
I felt so blessed.
But now, the next morning, after a decent night's sleep, as he watches star wars in the other room while I try to get my house in order, I'm having a moment.
It doesn't help that I'm washing baby food jars. Because I make muffins out of their squash because I couldn't be bothered to cook my own.
Before he was born, I didn't want him. And then God said, you need kids. And we got pregnant that week.
I didn't enjoy pregnancy, even though I wasn't sick, I wasn't exhausted...I just, didn't like it.
I didn't enjoy the labour.
I didn't enjoy him the first 6 weeks. In fact, I realize now that I was suffering from postpartum. Who knew?
And then at two months, I fell in love. Actually, I was watching 'Cold Mountain' and the part with Natalie Portman? Where the soldiers come? And demand food? And she doesn't give them any? So they put her naked baby in the snow? That's when I snapped. No way was anyone going to touch my baby.
He's 5.
I feel sick.
I so enjoyed 4.
Why does he have to grow up?
Sure, I know I have moments, like this camping trip where I wish I was far far away. But of course as soon as I am far far away, I find myself sniffing his sheets and snuggling his pillow because even though it smells like bad breath, I miss him. Desperately.
I hate thinking of the future.
Because I know he has to grow up.
I know he has to leave home.
I know he has to get married and I will need to not call him everyday.
Every second.
Demanding a kiss or snuggle.
And that breaks my heart.
Here's to being five.
I pray it lasts a lifetime.
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