Jude is Two

Dear Jude

When I say goodnight to you, I say “see you when you are sleeping.” Your Daddy thinks that is super creepy. But at the moment, you don’t realise how many times I visit you during the night to check on you, and because I miss you. 
I adjust your covers, and feel your cheeks to make sure you are perfectly warm, but not too warm. I stroke your hair, and notice in awe at how much space you occupy in your little cot. 

I whisper wishes and dreams and gratitude. I bless you over and over with what power I have. 

Tonight I whispered to your sleeping ears that I hoped you enjoyed your last day of being one. 

You didn’t. 

You’ve been unwell for 26 days in a row. You are sick, tired and fully over it. Sick of being inside, sick of being with me, sick of being made to blow your nose or have some water. 

You went totally fucking mental at Officeworks yesterday which nearly ruined stationery for me forever. I stand by it – I still don’t think you need a 10 pack of archive boxes or a half-inch gold permanent marker. 

You cried at nappy changes. 

You flat out lied about doing a poo even though you were pooing at the same time as grunting “Gnnnoooo!” I didn’t think toddlers could even tell porkies.

You hated all food groups that were not icypoles, chocolate or biscuits. 

And lo, dare we interrupt your misery for essentials such as dinner, bathing, or sleep. 

You spent this evening wheeling around on your tricycle in the most awkward fashion, losing your shit if we suggested the pedals. You know, the whole mechanism behind bike riding. You are right, we are fools. *sarcasm*.

But then when I fake cry out of frustration (okay, the cry was genuine) you pat my back and say “It’s otay Mum, it’s otay.”

And you are right.  It is otay. 

You are one today for the very last time. 

You are two tomorrow. 

But you will always be my sweet boy. 

My sun. My son. 

Jude. 

I love you, otay?