Fk me, that was some seriously scary shit! My son is two days shy of 11 and he just walked home frome school ALONE. I ensured I had 999 on speed dial and then rang my sister to calm me down as I sat out on the balcony (from which I have a good view down the street, should my little munchkin – who, in my mind, would get kidnapped/run over/die on route in unspeakable ways), and she calmly told me (but I could fkn SENSE her rolling her eyes at me) to stop being neurotic.
Let’s say it went good – so-so.
Oh, Monkey made it home just fine. He walked our usual route home and there was no problem. Me? I’m the second ‘so’ in so-so. I freaked out big time and called him five – FIVE – times whilst the poor sod was perfectly en-route home. No wonder the ring signal he’s designated ‘Mum’ to on his phone is the theme tune to Jaws.
Shit. My little chubby munchkin is now a boy. Fk me, that is some scary stuff! Those thighs that used to have several folds are now the slender legs of AN ACTUAL BOY. What used to be blond locks that bounced around little shoulders is now a trendy quiff hairstyle. His neck no longer has folds either. Nor do his knuckles have dimples.
WHAT WILL I DO NOW THAT MY LITTLE BABY IS GROWING UP???????
My other baby is quickly growing up too. Hendrix is – at nearly five months of age – hitting puberty, so we’re having her spayed beginning of December. Oh my.
Letting go is HARD! At least I have Monkey’s little note from when he was five years old, which he signed, saying he’ll never leave me and will live with me until into his forties and after that live next door if he HAS to move out. Got to be legally binding, no?
I’m suffering here. I hugged Monkey as if he’d come back from war when he got home.