You’re writing me letters. My little baby, I’m sure it was only last month you were 3kg and the size of my forearm, but you’re writing me letters. You worked on this one all afternoon and presented it to me with such pride on your face, and with so much love. So much adoration. I’ve made it a point to give you more attention lately, and I am being rewarded for it. I don’t mean to ignore you. I don’t ignore you. I just know you’re ok, so I let you get on with it. But I forget that you being ok doesn’t mean you don’t still need your Mummy. I forget that you need extra cuddles too, and just because you don’t claim them in the way your brother does, doesn’t mean you don’t still need them. Need me. You’re still my baby, I tell you that over and over. I am making it a point again now to show you. I’m sorry if I’ve been forgetful of that in the last few months.
“Mummy, will I still be your baby when I’m a 100 years old?”
“You’ll always be my baby.”
My special, beautiful, thoughtful baby.