Over-egging the importance of being four years old

I had hoped the frequent pep talks I gave him on how being four meant he was a big boy and with him going to school now it would mean him doing as he was told more, because they just wouldn’t put up with it in class.

I probably laid it on a bit thick so that he probably felt he had to raise his game in every area of his life in order to meet the required standard that being four demanded.

It got to the point where I was saying real four-year-olds definitely ate all their peas and carrots and there was no question he would have to wipe his own bum now he was of age.

In the days after his fourth birthday when he had fully come down from the high of a days’ worth of present opening and chocolate cake for lunch the depression set in as he bemoaned the anti-climax of being the big four.

On many a morning since the big day he has looked down at his feet and up to his hips before stating with unwavering certainty: “I don’t think I am any bigger mummy, my legs are still the same. Well, maybe this one is a bit longer but not much.”

I have to explain that his journey into a fully fledged grown-up wont happen overnight but bit by bit.

This doesn’t go down well as he suggests he will have to be big because he is going to school tomorrow.

I again have to let him down gently with the news that big school is still several months away yet.

He sighs and says: “I really don’t know about this being four mummy, I still feel three.”

To which I reply no one really feels their age except mummies who often feel considerably older because of all the running they do after other people.

This washes over him, he clearly has enough of the world’s problems on his shoulders without me adding mine to them.

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