Well, it’s that time of year again. Cake and presents. This time, somehow, you’re 3.
3 years ago I was waddling around waiting for our little bundle to join us. For a good few months after the birth I swore blind I’d avoided any pregnancy cravings. Then Daddy kindly pointed out that we’d had a freezer full of ice cream that was totally not normal, and that suggested quite the opposite. I was hot (and not in a good way), I was uncomfortably massive and I was impatiently waiting for you to arrive (you were 2 weeks late, which helped…).
Fast forward to today, and things are much the same. In less than 4 weeks you’ll become a big sister, so I am again waddling around like a space hopper with limbs, moaning about being uncomfortable, eating way more than my fair share of Ben & Jerry’s (and I mean WAY more) and being a typical Brit about the weather (the heatwave is ridiculous, the rain is ridiculous, why isn’t there any breeze? Blah blah blah).
Your third year on this earth has been busy busy busy. We had your first foreign holiday – a wonderful week in Greece with family. Lots of swimming, sandcastles and ice cream, plus your personal holiday highlight; the free shuttle bus at Gatwick. We also had a swimming/pedalo-ing/bowling-tastic week at Center Parcs with great friends, where I genuinely got beaten at ten pin bowling by 3 under-4s. Yes, I was trying.
You’ve taken an interest in my growing belly (you can stop that after mid-September) and you hug and talk to your new baby brother or sister all the time. You’re adamant you’re having a brother and won’t entertain the idea of a sister, so we’ll see what happens next month. Place your bets peeps…
You’ve discovered Disney films and will happily sit through Inside Out, Alice in Wonderland and Frozen. Your Daddy and I are still a bit lot fed up with Peppa Pig, but you love it. And we did successfully identify that the voiceover on a life insurance advert is that of Daddy Pig. Time well spent, I’m sure you’ll agree.
You started playgroup in September – 12 hours a week of playing with your buddies without me cramping your style. Since you started, the number of tear-free drop-offs has been in the single figures, but you do it for the drama rather than any genuine reason. After all, you skip out of the door at pick-up time with a smile, dried yoghurt and paint on your face and we can only assume you’ve had a ball. Playgroup has been the making of you; your character and confidence have grown, you’ve learnt so much and made loads of friends, and you know way more Welsh than Daddy or me (by a long chalk).
You started ballet classes, which have fuelled your love for singing and dancing and general prancing about the house. You’re quite eccentric when it comes to concluding most of your sing-songs, not with a bow or even a curtsy, but with a fake burp. So ladylike.
We started toilet training, which was fun. By fun, I mean that we all realised how annoying it is to be asking/asked “do you need a wee?” every 2 minutes. I’m certain that that and “will you eat your food please?” will be up there as our most commonly-used phrases of 2016.
You’ve gone from being the Queen of Tantrums to being a funny, kind and thoughtful little girl. You are wonderful company and you make us laugh every day. Even when you announced the other week, totally out of the blue, that: “I’m the captain, Daddy’s the boss and Mummy’s the cleaner”. That got me right in the feels.
In a few weeks something major is happening – and I don’t just mean the baby. You’re starting ‘big school’. Where we live, nursery classes are often part of a primary school so you’ll be sporting a grown-up uniform and grown-up school shoes and you’ll be off to grown-up nursery class 5 mornings a week. I know it’s nursery, I know that. You won’t be doing SAT tests just yet and you won’t be bringing home that massive UCAS book yet either, I know that too. But the uniform is making me a bit of an emotional wreck (so much so that it’s been hung in your wardrobe for well over a month and I haven’t mustered up the emotional maturity to get you to try it on). I blame the hormones, I always will.
There are days I wear odd earrings, trip over my other foot, and find the TV remote in the fridge. And yet, here we are, now responsible for a 3 year old and soon enough a newborn, too. I guess we must be doing something right.
Happy 3rd birthday, Bear. We’re spending it at our country retreat (by ‘country retreat’, I mean Nana and Grandad’s house, where I don’t have to do any washing or hoovering), so enjoy being spoilt, enjoy your cake, your presents and no doubt countless renditions of Happy Birthday. Next weekend we’ll do it all over again with a Gruffalo-tastic party for all your friends. Then there will be a new kid on the block, and another birthday blog post to add to my writing list.
We love you millions, you gorgeous little chatterbox (can’t think where you get that from) and we can’t wait to see you as a big sister.
Mummy & Daddy