...I walked out of the bathroom carrying a white stick. I sat on the bed next to my sleeping husband and didn't say anything. I couldn't. The words just wouldn't come out. I sat there for a few minutes quietly sobbing until it woke him up. He bounced straight up obviously concerned seeing me just sitting there crying. I still couldn't talk. I just thrust that white stick out at him. He took one look at those two blue lines and in typical Brian fashion uttered the words "What are you crying for dickhead? I thought that's what you wanted." Hell yes, it was what I wanted. I was surprised it happened so bloody quickly, but yes it was what I wanted without a doubt.
So now it's the morning of his 8th birthday. Again I feel like quietly crying.
My baby is eight. Where did that time go? Everyday I thank my lucky stars that he is in it.
Yes we have some not so good days (he's stubbon and pig headed just like me, so really I cannot expect any different), but they are out weighed by the millions of "I love yous" I get. They are outweighed by the bear hug cuddles I get. They are outweighed by the drawings of me I get given. They are outweighed by the little (well not so little anymore) boy who still runs down the hallway to come flying into his mum's arms when I get home from work. These things I cherish. It won't be long now before it's not "cool" to be doing any of those things.
Happy 8th Birthday Baby Boy. xx
Love you to the moon and back.