In less than a month’s time our boys will be turning three.
In 17 days time, to be precise.
No longer babies, in the literal sense, my two tiny man-cubs are now little boys.
Their daddy and I have been privileged to watch these two humans be born into the world — two ruby-red scraps of bone and skin — weighing less than 6lb each. We’ve seen them grow and change, day by day.
Marvelling at how the sanguine, bird-like bird limbs have transformed into chubby, strong little arms and legs.
Applauding every milestone, every new achievement.
We’ve been frightened for their health; particularly when Bertie wouldn’t wake up to feed, in the very early days, and nearly had to go back into hospital to be tube fed.
No-one tells you how hard it can be to rouse a lethargic, premature baby, who desperately needs milk in order to stay alive.
Or the terror when I realised he was allergic to egg; which resulted in a trip in the back of an ambulance; blue lights flashing.
Ditto when Cosmo almost choked on a small piece of tinfoil.
It’s extraordinary how quickly the protective parental instinct kicks in, once you have children. A fierce lioness, inside me, that I never knew existed.
Even more extraordinary is how much love you can feel for such a small person. How much impact they can have on your lives, before you’ve even met them.
I loved them even before they were born.
And now I watch them, eating, sleeping, fighting, playing.
And I love them even more.