Aimee Horton

When your baby turns 3.

Oct
25

I started a long post on this, and I have just deleted it.  After all you all know that birthdays make me broody, and a little bit emotional.  You all know that every year my boys get older I go and start looking back at old scan and baby bump photos, the first picture I posted on Facebook, and even go and hunt out a teeny tiny nappy.  You all know this. So I’m not going to tell you all about it again (as I cry into my gin and tonic whilst looking at the first photo of my boys together).

Instead, I’m going to tell you about My Chunky Monkey.  My fat little boy who if you just see him in a supermarket car park whilst being karate chopped into his car seat, or in B&Q being carried in full plank (literally) kicking and screaming by a worn looking version of my instagram feed photos, you’ll think he’s horrible.  If you read my status updates about him poo’ing in the swimming pool, spitting, stomping his feet, answering back, not eating his dinner, changing his mind, screaming because he doesn’t want to leave his brother at school, shutting the toilet seat on my back because he doesn’t want me to go to the toilet, ignores people who say hello to him, systematically placing blueberries into the goldfish bowl to prove that he’s never ever going to eat them, you’d think he was horrible.

And he is.  Sometimes.  But he’s also three.

He’s three years old, with wild hair, and a very loud voice.  He always has snot on his cheek, and food on his clothes.  He refuses to potty train, or try fruit and veg, he wakes up in the night and does a medley of Wheels on the Bus, One Direction and The Superman Song. He answers back, scarily in the same tone of voice I’m using, and sends me to the hall (31 one minutes in the hall ON MY OWN? Yes please).

He’s three years old with a wicked sense of humour (both meanings of the word), he is a performer, an actor, a clown.  He’s smart, not only with both his numbers and letters, but also in how he knows how to push his brothers buttons in one easy sentence “No, I’m five and you’re three”. 

He’s three years old and when he dances the whole house shakes.  Especially as he does the official dance moves from the One Direction video.

He’s three years old and tells you every time he does a trump then laughs about it, his bum is so fat he needs size 4-5 pants, and his head is so big that when you try and help him into a top it takes about 5 minutes for it to pop through the neck hole.

He’s three years old and knows how to use the iPad better then I do, to the point where he’s managed to memorise the restricted access password so I can no longer lock him into a specific game.

He’s three years old and whilst I tell everyone that he will only ever drink milk or water he is also a “tup of tea” thief, drinking my tea and dunking his biscuits in whenever he gets the opportunity too.

He’s the three year old that when he doesn’t get his own way will face plant into a bucket of soil.

He’s three years old and the most loving cuddly little boy I know, pulling you in for a “big kiss big cuggle”, nuzzling into your neck with one arm holding you into a firm head lock, or grabbing your face for a full on kiss.  He strokes your hair and your face, and just runs up and after making a dinosaur or monster noise pulls you into a massive big fat hug.

He’s three years old and a clown, the Norm of the school run, where everybody knows his name.

But most importantly…

He’s three years old and in January will be eligible for free childcare funding for fifteen hours.

Hurrah!  Happy Birthday Chunky Monkey x

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