I always made sure the magic was there

The tooth fairy notes, the bunny clues

Christmas was pure joy and I clung to it so tightly

Knowing one day I wouldn’t have these little wide-eyed believers

Knowing my heart would be a little bit empty.

.

And now you are Eleven

And we both know

But you still follow the Easter bunny prints with a smile

And make plausible excuses for the tooth fairy when she forgets

(Thank you)

You look to the sky on Christmas Eve and rush to get the milk and cookies

.

We both know what’s happening

Your kind enthusiasm is all for me

But I’m so grateful that you’re making this part a bit easier

The balance tips

The magic shifts

But that is love

I guess

I see you in that photo Mama

That happy holiday one on the beach

A family having a magical day, making full and lasting memories

.

I see you in that photo Mama

The sand-speckled faces of children smothered in suncream

(The expensive one that’s kind to skin)

Treats you brought gripped tightly in tiny fists 

Little beach shoes to protect little toes

Matching swim suits, so carefully chosen

Sunglasses and sunhats (please keep them on)

.

I see you in that photo Mama

The UV beach tent you battled to put up

Wipes and nappy sacks

Emergency rain macs

Many changes of clothes and just-in-case snacks

.

It’s a happy photo Mama

With the body boards you remembered

And bats and balls and frisbees and buckets and spades

And your magazine (which is laughable really)

.

I see you in that photo Mama

Even though you’re behind the camera

Like all these special pictures of their Very Best Times

But you made this photo what it is

And i just wanted to say although you’re not in it

.

I see you 

I inhale the sweet scent of you as you sleep

Snuggling into your soft warm hair

Smelling of organic wild strawberry shampoo 

How do babies smell so perfect 

.

Yet sticky

.

Oh

.

It’s fromage frais

I’m sorry I don’t know your birthday, that I wouldn’t recognise your handwriting.

I have never heard your laugh. I wonder what your voice sounds like, I can imagine it in my head but it’s just a guess.

Do you write with your right hand or are you a leftie like me? Do you dress brightly? I would guess that you do.

I’ve never been in your car, I don’t know what you drive. I wonder if you’re bad at parking like I am?

I wouldn’t know what to order you if we met for lunch, I’m not sure of your favourite drink.

.

Yet I know your deepest insecurities and your vulnerability in the middle of the night.

I know the comments your mother in law makes that strain your marriage. 

I feel your exhaustion in every night message and I feel your joy in every tiny milestone your little one reaches.

I know your toddler’s favourite yogurt and how you soothe them to sleep.

Emotionally I go through every doctors appointment and nursery visit with you, every work success you have and each rant when days are hard. 

The big stuff, the small stuff, the wouldn’t-say-this-to-anyone-else-stuff.

.

What a strange friendship this is, my online village, my tribe. 

How much there is I don’t know – but oh how special the stuff is that I do.

I thought of lots of lines today

Beautiful prose

Heartfelt words

Raw accurate truths

About being a mum

Your mum

But you interrupted

And I forgot it all

But it would have been lovely I’m sure

Although that poem probably wouldn’t reflect my tired mind

Quite as much as this one does

Is this my world?

.

Breakfast and tidying

Washing and clearing

Playing and negotiating and please eat your sandwich

Garden time, screen time

How is it dinner time

Baths and stories

Chasing and dressing

.

This is my world.

How blessed am I.

.

(But also please eat your sandwich)

We watched our children play in this garden.

.

These are the paths

That felt the patter of tiny shoes

As they chased chickens and footballs

And a big brother on his bike.

.

This is the grass

That cushioned our picnics

The blanket which held us

As we made shapes out of clouds.

.

This is the patio

Which was also a gallery

Of chalk pictures

And mazes

And fading water paintings.

.

This is the apple tree

Which gave us more than just fruit.

Knobbly and bobbly

It saw 2 little boys with wicker baskets

Learning to count

As they filled up their trugs

Dreaming of crumbles and loaf cakes.

.

These are the roses

Whose petals made perfume

Mixed with daisies and grass

Little hands stirring with grubby sticks.

.

These are the sun loungers

One, two, three

For after-school-chats, Shua, Woo and Me.

Covered in ice lolly drips

And fabric rips.

.

This is the hutch

Which housed 13 rabbits

Its hard to be poetic about something that was

Total Chaos

.

This is the place

Which saw rosy-cheeked boys in woolly mittens and bobble hats

And tiny tabletop snowmen.

Playdates and playmates,

Echoes of Easter egg hunts and obstacle races,

Birthdays parties and raking leaves.

The spot we sat for our picnic the day before you started school,

Our little piece of perfect.

.

This is the bench

Which faced the sunset

And held us back then.

I remember that evening so clearly

When I imagined how perfect life would be

When we could watch our children

Play in this garden

“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.

.

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