My beloved eldest child is 23 today. From 12:41 p.m., Wednesday 18th April 1990, Tory Boy was my ylem. The moment I saw him, I loved.
I might even have cried a little (probably thinking about the pregnancy fat I was never going to shake off).
‘Bonding’ had come into fashion when I was carrying TB; I asked my gynea if I would be able to hold the baby as soon as it was born. He told me that bonding takes a life time, not a moment. He was right.
What he failed to mention, however, is that as soon as you’ve bonded, you have to start preparing yourself to let go of them. Tory Boy works; he has a lovely girlfriend; he lives away from home; he calls and visits (occasionally; usually when he needs something); he sends me poems that make me laugh and weep. I did my job. His father helped, when I let him.
But how I miss those moments, early in the morning, when it was just him and me. When I would soothe and feed him and he would fall asleep in my arms.
Our bonding began on the Saturday after he was born, when the Hub was given permission not to visit until the evening (after the match). I fed Tory Boy; he fell asleep; and I simply could not bear to let go of him. I sat in a chair with my beautiful baby in my arms and we stayed there for many hours. My demanding body, which needs a toilet break every hour and a food break every half hour, knew not to mess with me that day.
I looked at my baby and I loved him; and that has never changed.