The children were asleep and my husband had gone out to pick up some take out for our ‘stay@home date night’. I knelt down to clean the dinner scraps under the table and I saw ‘him’ lying all alone in a corner under the table. Just lying there while my son slept peacefully in his bedroom. ‘His’ name is ‘Musy’ and the sight of him lying there sent tears swiftly to my eyes as the realisation flooded over me like a tsunami. My son is not a baby anymore. You see, Musy has been a part of our family for 3.5 years now. He is as old as my son. He has travelled with us, interstate and overseas. Wherever my son slept, Musy would be right there curled up beside him. Musy has been sucked on, ferociously chewed, flung around, thrown, dragged, washed and stitched up many, many times. He is very loved. Every night for the past 3 years Musy could be found in a warm bed with tiny fingers wrapped around his neck. Loved. Needed. But not tonight. Tonight he is here, on the dining room floor, as a sign that my baby is now a boy. As I wipe away the tears now irrationally streaming down my face, I pick Musy up, and slip him into bed with my son. Where he belongs. For tonight, my son is still my baby and I am sure I will see him this way forever.
