This is Billy. My beautiful third child.
He is sweet and so affectionate. He loves giving kisses and dancing to music.
He sounds delightful doesn’t he? He is, totally delightful. But he is also an absolute terror.
Billy, has no fear. None. You know that saying “well they’ll only do that once”? Yeah. No. That doesn’t apply to him.
He climbs onto couches and nose dives off. And then gets up and does it again.
He knocks chairs over as he passes them. He throws toys at his brothers. The other day he dragged his mini drum kit over to the baby gate and attempted to hoist a leg over.
He is smart and cunning and that’s one hell of a dangerous mix.
“No” is met with what can only be described as a mini tantrum. Mini because of his size, not that of the tantrum.
Moving objects, creating obstacles or distractions do nothing to slow him down.
He is a little man on a mission.
Part of me admires his determination. But the other part, the sensible mother part, lives in fear of him seriously hurting himself.
Like seriously hurting himself.
But I know, and this is the part of motherhood that I struggle with the most, that a little bit of me has to let go and let him try. I can’t wrap him in cotton wool, and I can’t stop squash his sense of adventure. Because that’s Billy, and he wouldn’t be our Billy without it.
Are any of your children total daredevils?