I’d say I’m a pretty pragmatic person. Yeah, I might weep at the odd Grey’s Anatomy episode (they’re an unlucky bunch, aren’t they?) but I’m not one to cry at the drop of a hat.
At least, I wasn’t before kids. Typing the above paragraph I’m now running through in my mind all those times I did cry at the drop of a hat. For instance, I watched The Notebook for the first time lately: it was a car crash in my tear ducts that evening. I was a mess, a horrendous snotty mess.
Saying goodbye to Hux’s pre-school yesterday was no exception.
I thought I’d be pretty chill about the whole thing. On paper, the move up is completely positive. No more 45 minute round-trip school runs thrice daily: the children will both be at the same school and on the same schedule. He’s excited and ready for the move, and I think the increased structure will do him good.
But he’s my baby and he’s too little for this! What about our afternoon snuggles on the sofa, the errands we like to run together, his little tshirts that’ll be replaced with big boy shirts? It breaks my heart.
I went to see him in his leaver’s assembly yesterday, standing in a line with all his pre-school friends singing Monkey Puzzle, and I totally choked up.
(Though when I say singing Monkey Puzzle I mean standing next to his friend Ernie, ruffling his hair, hopping on one foot, pulling faces. Basically anything but singing).
There was my little boy who’d been coming to this wonderful pre-school since the age of two, the now 4 year old who always managed to cajole his keyworker into crafting rockets and space blasters for him (he came home with two on his last day), about to launch himself into the big wide world of infant school, new friends, phonics, teachers, after-school clubs.
“I’m a bit sad you’re leaving your lovely pre-school, Hux” I sniffed through my tears.
“I’m not” he said. “I don’t like pre-school. I only like big school”.
Fair enough. My little Hux: breaking hearts since 2012.
It’s not just that my littlest is moving on up, growing older, ceasing to need his mummy as much. It’s the thought that he might be my last graduating pre-school. At 31 this year I’m not getting any younger, and with no Mr Right on the horizon I’ve started coming to terms with the fact he might be my last baby. Which I guess is why I’ve been squeezing every last drop of his babyhood from him.
There’s more of that to come, though. He’s still sneaking into my bed for a cuddle on the odd occasion, and I love those times – even when he wees on me. We have the summer for a host of kiddie activities: the zoo, the cinema, paddling pools, picnics, city beaches, actual beaches. Peppa Pig World (GROAN).
My little boy, he may be growing up, I may have already spent the cost of a pair of Kurt Geigers on his new school uniform. But he’ll always be my little boy, my baby, my Huxy. No matter how many times he insists he’s a big boy now, he’ll forever find himself in the crook of my arm.
Hey little Buddy, you’re moving on up! I couldn’t be prouder. How about you stop weeing on your mum now?
Fashion notes (because who doesn’t like a good fashion note?). Skirt of dreams: Whistles (on sale in denim!). Shirt: GAP (similar, on sale!). Necklace: Mango. Shoes: Boden (the comfiest heels I own – here are similar).