“It’s the third child”
They say
When he’s been woken up for the school run again
When he’s still in his pyjamas
When his blankets have flowers on
And his trousers are bobbled.
.
“It’s the third child”
They smile
When he’s running like he’s wild
When he’s not clinging to me like a limpet
And shouts along with the noise.
.
“It’s the third child”
They nod
When he’s not sitting down to eat
Like I’ve given up on any discipline
Like there’s no energy for these battles.
.
“It’s the third child”
They laugh
When snacks are all out of packets
When nothing’s organic
And his best food is cake.
.
“He’s my third child”
I smile.
As I do this thing more confidently.
As I appreciate his tininess and cherish sleepy cuddles.
As I hold onto toothy smiles and words only I understand.
.
“He’s my third child”
I pause.
As I tuck the feel of his soft hair and warm hands deep in my heart.
As I cradle his squishiness and commit it to my forever memory.
As I breathe it all in, all of it, even if the baby record book is unfilled.
.
“He’s my third child”
I yawn.
As I read him endless stories rather than pureeing broccoli.
As I embrace his spirit and not wonder whether I’m doing this thing right.
As I ignore the books and the websites and the forums (this time).
.
“He’s my third child”
I cry
As my heart bursts seeing the love between 3 best friends.
As I look at the little team we’ve made.
As I treasure each little first and each precious last in the way only a 3rd time mama can understand.
They’re really
Not little
For very long
