A love letter TO MY SON

Becky Dickinson on the bittersweet rewards of seeing your children become adults

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The waiter lights the candle and I gaze into the eyes of my dinner date: the bluegrey eyes with flecks of green that I've loved beyond measure for 16 years. At that moment, I think back to the first time we met, on a freezing cold January night. He arrived at almost midnight, ashen and silent, after a 48-hour labour that - fortunately - only one of us remembers. Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago. Which in his case it was.

I was terrified of losing him, back then. And now, 16 years later, I'm terrified I'm losing him again, this man-boy, with the square shoulders I hardly recognise and the throaty voice and the bristles above his top lip. It's often said about parenting that the days are long and the years are short. When my children were young, I so often craved a bit of me time - a haircut, a cup of tea that didn't go cold, an hour to myself. It never happened. And then, suddenly, it did. Baby Annabells were consigned to the orphanage of the loft, along with Lego and Julia Donaldson (I never could give those books away), replaced by a swirl of hormones and headphones. And now, as my son stomps towards adulthood, I wonder: when did all this happen? When did I take my eye off the game? I remember his first day at nursery: he cried so violently that they called me to collect him after just one hour. I strapped him into the Maxi-Cosi and drove home in a fog of exhaustion and exasperation, wondering how I'd ever get any work done, ever get back to anything resembling 'normal' again. But also, secretly, pleased that he needed me so badly; loved me as much as I loved him.