My darling boy,
In a few weeks it will be three years since I first saw your scrunched up face and your serious eyes. Three years since you grasped my heart in your tight little fist and changed it forever. We’ve been through so much together already, it’s hard to believe you’re only three years old. How have you not been here always?
You amaze me daily. You are so kind and quirky, imaginative and playful. When I’m sad you always come to me and gently stroke my arm until I look up and smile. You are cuddly and sweet. You love pesto and play-doh – you’ve been known to eat and play with both. Your favourite film is Monsters University, your favourite book is your pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and your favourite place is the woods, or maybe the pond with all the ducks and pigeons. You still wake most nights but your face lights up when you see us next to you in the morning and it makes the disrupted nights completely worth it. You are headstrong, stubborn and frustrating; you do things your own way, but you rarely tantrum. I’ve seen you hurt and angry but able to pick yourself up and move on happily. You eat grapes by the tonne. Your best friend is the cat and thankfully it’s more than mutual. You are adaptable, excited about everything, gentle and rambunctious in equal measure. You are every season rolled into one.
But I don’t know what your favourite colour is, whether it’s constant or changes every day. I don’t know what you dream about. I don’t know whether you know you’re starting nursery next month, even though I’ve tried to talk to you about it. I don’t know what adventures your toys are on when they’re jumping round on the table and diving off the sofa. I don’t know where you want to go on your birthday. I sometimes don’t know what you want when you whine and look up at me pleadingly.
You have a speech delay and there is so much I don’t know.
I don’t know why you don’t really talk. I don’t know if it’s something we have or haven’t done (you’ve certainly had less one-on-one time with us since Leo arrived). I don’t know if you have a developmental disorder, or a hearing problem. I don’t know if you’re just taking your time and you’ll suddenly start speaking in full, grammatically correct sentences and reading the Financial Times over breakfast.
But the whys don’t really matter. I don’t want you to be anyone other than who you are, and who you are right now doesn’t talk. I want you to know that’s okay.
I just wish I knew whether the decisions I’m making are the right ones for you. I wish you could communicate to me somehow that, yes Mummy, keep going, this is what I need.
Because I’m clueless.
And yes, I wish I could hear you tell me you love me. Heck, I’d settle for you saying my name more often. And I admit I’m jealous of all those parents of children the same age as you sharing their stories of the latest funny thing their little one said.
But please understand I’m not jealous because I’m disappointed in you, or in any way ashamed. You are perfect to me. I would never ever change you, not for anything in the world.
I’m jealous because of all those I don’t knows. I want to hear your thoughts because I want to know you better and drink in all of you before time changes you, as it’s meant to do.
Like how sometimes you hug Toru and squeeze too hard because you want to love as much of him as you can, but then he swishes his tail and jumps up so you can’t reach him anymore? You feel sad that he moves away but you’re not angry with him, you just want to keep loving him, don’t you? Mummy feels a bit like that when you don’t talk.
But it’s really okay. You can keep swishing your tail as much as you want, my sweet boy. Keep on being you, keep on conquering the world, keep on laughing at random dogs in the park, keep on dancing to the music you sing to yourself, keep on shining with that beautiful smile of yours. You are doing just fine.
And I promise you that when you speak, I will listen.