Just like last year we wandered to the garden tended so carefully by its owner, where fressias and poppies catch the early-Spring winds and beg to be caught by little hands. And of course, in each spray of colour, in each little step is a reminder of how far this boy of mine has come. So far that when I call him 'my baby' he turns around and says: "No muma, I'm your wittle boy." Yes, he's my little boy. Almost 3. Three years that went so very fast.