HOW are you six and a half?
My favourite thing about motherhood is the disbelief and downright outrage I feel whenever you turn a year older, and this year, like clockwork, I’m shocked to the core.
When I wrote this, Autumn had well and truly hit. Our favourite season. The burnt orange leaves against blanket grey skies, shiny conkers gleaming like treasure from the pavement and the familiarity of my bank account turning into a food diary as the pumpkin spice lattes morph into chocolate yule logs and we swap Peppa Pig for, well, Festive Peppa Pig.
This year, you chose a Barbie theme for your birthday. You squealed with delight at your cake, which was a Barbie doll with a dress made of sponge and icing. We had it at Clip n Climb with all of your school friends. This was the year we had our first tooth fairy visit and you couldn’t sleep with excitement.
As you get older and more independent, I feel that niggling feeling that you don’t need me so much almost on the daily. But today I picked you up from school early, and you emerged, eyes scouring the crowd of faces for mine. Your expression switched from concentration to immediate glee. I needn’t worry. Just as I’m hardwired to think 5 steps ahead to keep you safe, you’re hardwired to find me in a crowd, and the delight on your face when you find me is something I’ll never tire of for as long as I get it.
You’re still at the age where I’m funny and you still have that ludicrous chortle you had when you were a baby, although now it echoes down school corridors and public swimming pools instead of soft plays and nursery hallways. One thing I’m learning is that you are truly two sides of a coin. On one side, you are polite and delightful with impeccable manners; on the other, there’s a small person pushing boundaries with a knack for delivering razor-sharp insults that are next-level hilarious. When I do something you don’t like, you shout YOU SCALLIWAG at such volume that people in a different time zone or planet could hear it. Which is fine at home, but not so fun on a night flight.
Now you’re six, nothing gets past you. You are a Scorpio, known for reading the room at all times, collecting the energies and emotions of others like candy. I’m extra cautious of passing my phobias on to you, and this was tested to the absolute maximum the other day when we found a spider in our kitchen, and you called him Frank. You hoped Frank would be there when we got home, and I hoped that Ted would have eaten Frank.
Your fifth year was filled with firsts. We did our first long-haul holiday, just you, me and about 6788 air tags pinned to the inside of your t-shirt. (Helicopter parent who?) This trip was special, spectacular, but for me, sentimental.
The last time I travelled to the USA, you were safe in my belly, but if this trip taught me anything, it’s that I am still your safe space. The universe really conspired to make this one of the most incredible holidays of my life, the universe… and my best friend who drove 7 hours to chauffeur us home from JFK airport. I learned that 40 years of friendship is a cheese string after an 8-hour flight, a well-prepared soundtrack and a New York skyline at sunset. Memories were made for a lifetime.
Travelling with you made me realise we share so many similarities. Like me, you are social, but you need your own space. Your social battery needs recharging from time to time, and playing on your own is your respite. I am sorry it took me six years to muster up the courage to take you on a long-haul holiday, but I can promise it is something there will be plenty more of.
Unbenown to you, six is the year we will visit Disneyland, I went at the same age and I know I’ll feel tearful when I see those pastel pink turrets in the distance. How precious it is to show you the world and see it through your eyes.
So why am I posting this six months late? Well, as you now might have guessed, mummy is late for everything, and while we’ve nailed getting to school on time, sometimes I still drop the ball.
For now, I have a front-row seat to the Jolie show and how lucky I am to have it. Happy six (and a half) years, baby girl.
