Rites of Passage

“Mummy?” asked The Very Small Boy, looking up earnestly from where he was sitting at the breakfast bar and cramming a handful of Smarties into his mouth.
“Yes Baby Pie?” I replied.
“You can call me a smashing fellow if you want to!”
“Oh good!” I laughed, kissing his chocolatey cheek “because you know what? I was just thinking to myself what an absolutely smashing fellow you are!”

We had spent a happy afternoon baking a cake and decorating it: the Very Small Boy is Very Nearly Three, and I had promised to send him in to playschool on Thursday with something celebratory to share with his friends. The Small People were having a marvellous time, wielding icing-laden spatulas and squabbling over bowls of sweets and sprinkles, the Small Girl busily trying to convince herself that she had a wobbly tooth (something she had been wanting for some months since a friend’s tooth “like actually fell out” at school).

“It really is wobbly!” she declared crossly, one hand to her mouth, the other curled protectively around a small bowl of jelly snakes.
“I know Darling, I’m sure it will be wobbly very soon” I replied soothingly, pushing the cake out of her brother’s reach as he attempted lick the icing off.

I find it hard to believe that the Very Small Boy is no longer a baby. With each passing milestone - from solids to first steps to outgrowing his cot and finally his nappies – he has grown into a complicated, interesting little fellow able to hold his own in a conversation and share his views (of which he really does have many but which mostly involve the "baddies" from the movie Home Alone).

I met with the Small Girl’s teacher today to discuss her progress at school, which so far has been very good. She is able to read pretty well and can figure out new words by sounding them out. She’s good at maths and is popular and sociable, quiet and thoughtful but gaining the confidence to speak out in class and hold her own against the other children. And I was desperately touched to hear that her teacher has pinned up a note at home on her fridge that my lovely girl gave her in class which reads “teacher is byootiful”.

“Mummy, my tooth really is wobbly!” insisted the Small Girl once more, after we had arrived home from the parent-teacher meeting. “feel it!”.
I sighed and gently put my finger on the little tooth. It moved perceptibly back and forth.
“Oh my goodness!” I cried “I felt it! It really is wobbly, I can’t believe it!”. Thrilled for her, I dashed off to text DH the happy news.

Half an hour later, I sat down next to her on the sofa, sobbing quietly.
“Mummy, are you crying?” asked the Small Girl with concern.
“Yes” I said, sniffing “I just realised that your wobbly tooth was the very first tooth to come through when you were a baby… I was so excited when I realised you had a tooth, I couldn’t wait to show Daddy, and we felt its sharp little edge in your baby gums, and it was so amazing… and now it’s going to fall out!” I sobbed, and burst out crying again.

“Don’t worry Mummy!” she said, smiling and shaking her head. “I only just realised it was wobbly today. It probably won’t even fall out for ages!” And with that, my very grown-up daughter put her arm around my shoulders to comfort me, wiping away my tears as she did so with her sleeve.