I always knew this moment would come, one day. 

And yet, despite knowing it would, somehow when it did, I was still caught unawares. 

It took all my strength, skill and experience in navigating this life to not allow so much as a flicker of emotion to show on my face or be heard in my voice…but even now nearly eighteen hours later, that emotion is still caught in my throat and welling up in the corners of my eyes. 

I debated sharing this moment because it is both raw and personal, but it is the reality, and I always have done. The reasons for that remain the same – those who do share this life will understand and maybe find solidarity; those who do not share this life may receive some insight into the ways in which it can always catch you out, even when you thought all the gut punches were behind you.

Spoiler alert: They never are.

This was the moment when I realised I was changing my manchild’s nappy. In mind, in heart and in soul, he is still a child. A pure, innocent soul with no understanding of why this moment was in any way significant or even unusual. It is probably good that he is so innocent because that means he doesn’t understand why it is unusual; it means he feels absolutely no embarrassment or (heaven forbid) shame. But in body, he is now an adult. I’m sure I don’t need to describe the changes between the body of a baby boy and a nearly fourteen year old manchild, those will be obvious. 

But as I always knew there would be, there is a vast emotional difference between engaging in this most intimate act of personal care for a tiny, fragile, wriggling baby who is utterly dependent on their parent for everything…and engaging in the same act for a manchild who is adult height, adult weight and adult formed. 

The former is a normal, expected part of parenthood, a task none of us enjoy but all of us accept as part of the reality. It is also a task every parent knows will be temporary because their baby will grow out of the need for it. The latter is absolutely unexpected, unwanted, and, as I have realised, cannot be planned for no matter how much you know it will one day come. It is also one that the manchild will not grow out of, if he hasn’t gotten it by now, he never will. 

The moment hit me like a gut punch as my beautiful, perfect child rolled around naked on his bed, giggling in innocent joy as I helped him get ready for bed. He chattered in his own language about which story he wanted me to read to him and told me, “Happy home! Adam and mummy are best friends!” 

The emotion of it gathered in my eyes as I quickly and efficiently wiped him clean, wrapped the nappy around him from back to front and gathered the tapes gently but firmly around his waist and hips. It was over in a moment, but in that moment, the grief of what could and should have been – but never will be – choked my throat closed. I swallowed hard to hide my visceral reaction and blinked the tears quickly away. 

My son never noticed a thing, thank goodness. I pray he never does because – of course – I will do exactly what he needs me to do and I will do it for as long as he needs me to. To him, this level of personal care is normal. It’s just what mummy does. Doesn’t every mummy do this for every boy? He doesn’t know, nor does he understand, thank goodness.

The reality of this life is not now and not ever his fault. He cannot learn what his damaged brain cannot absorb. He simply needs this help and so he will receive it, without question and without condemnation.

I pray he will never know how hard I find these moments to be or how the regret, the memories and the grief of what might have been can overwhelm me.

He is my child. No matter how big he grows or how many years pass, he is now and always will be my child.

My baby.

And that is precisely the point.