Here he is sitting, waiting for his cards and presents.
How is he five? Five years old. I’m sure I don’t have five years worth of memories of him.
Five minutes, sure. I remember that well. As a new baby in my arms, red-faced and furious at his quick exit, grunting as he took his first breaths. I’d never had a grunting baby before and no one could find anything specific wrong, but this landed us in hospital for an extra night just in case.
At five days of age he was sleepy and orange, like a little pumpkin. I had high hopes that my last baby might be as good a sleeper as my first one had been. These were soon cruelly dashed.
At five weeks we was smiling and interacting with his sisters, who adored him and had to be stopped from lugging him from room to room with them. He was their favourite toy and I’m sure they were his. Such a pity this didn’t last.
At 5 months he was sitting up in his high chair and jealously chomping on rusks and bits of fruit and vegetables. No purees for him, weaning was completely baby led and a very serious business indeed.
But what about years 1, 2, 3 and 4? What happened to them? They’ve gone by so fast that I feel slightly cheated.
I’m much more emotional about my baby turning 5 than I was about my eldest turning 11.
I’m never ever going to have a 4 year old again.