Around this time last year I was full-bellied and waddling and my almost-four-year-old was holding my hand as we explored. We used to talk, the two of us, about the baby. He always knew it would be a girl.
I remember feeling elated about the imminent birth and yet underlying the excitement and anticipation was a true sadness. In late pregnancy I already missed the time that I would spend with my boy, my first-born, just the two of us. It hurt to think of just how much his life was about to change and just how much I would change, as his muma.
Of course, with change comes growth, and there was very little sadness in those first few months of Poet's life. But since his half-birthday, as he journeys closer and closer to five (!), I have noticed an enormous shift in his little being.
Because there's one foot in four and one foot teetering at the big school gates. And me oh my it's overwhelming.
My gentle, intriguing chatterbox has discovered determination and assertion. Good traits for school life. Now, more than ever, he needs that time with me, to amble around the garden and pick lemons and climb trees.
My truth? I need that time with him. To nurture his little self, to chat about why the tree fell down, to plan the baking of jam drops. To be there, with him, and only him.
School next year - I can't talk about it. Not yet.