My fearful worrier, a.k.a Cling-On

In the sci-fi movie Star Trek, there lives an alien race of villains known as Klingon’s.  

Now I must admit, I’ve not seen any of the movies, they’re not really my thing. However I can’t help but draw comparison to my own little villain, my son Max.

Where the Klingon’s are fearsome warriors, my son is a fearful worrier, or shall we say, a Cling-on?

I am not someone you’d call an expert on children and their behaviours. In actual fact, I had never really been around small children before, other than my own, for any considerable length of time. But at fifteen months I would have thought that the “separation anxiety” stage would have surely passed by now?

I am constantly prizing my clingon’s fingers from around my legs. He pulls at my pants with eyes that are pleading, “pick me up mummy!” Simple tasks such as brushing my teeth, putting on a bra or going to the toilet have become mission impossible's with my little cling-on “clinging on” for dear life.

Now excuse me, but after the undignified experience of childbirth, I do believe I’ve earned the right to wee in private, without a small fascinated face peering into the bowl.


I've no doubt, that there will come a time, when I will wish those days hadn't passed, when I lovingly remember being needed, wanted and adored by my little one. 


But for now, can I PLEASE just have one moment to myself?