There are moments in life that force you to confront the tender, unvarnished truths of parenthood. For us, that moment arrived with a confetti cannon’s worth of glitter and the bass drop from a Martin Garrix set: our daughter is turning three. Three. The age of tricycles and tantrums, of scraped knees and whispered secrets, and the staggering realization that she’s now more coherent than half the people we used to party with. It’s also the age where people’s eyebrows start to twitch whenever I say, “Yes, she’s our only one.”
Cue the horror. The questions. The unsolicited pep talks about “not waiting too long” and “think of the memories!”—as if our family photos aren’t already brimming with enough serotonin to power an EDM festival. “But don’t you want her to have a sibling?” they whisper, like it’s some secret password to the VIP section of a parental utopia. I want to tell them she already has siblings: Frans, Sunshine, and Fox, our furry little babies who curl up beside her when she’s resting. But that doesn’t seem to land well with people.
Yes, I’m sad. Sad in that poetic, Lana Del Rey kind of way, where you linger in the nostalgia of all the firsts that are also lasts. Her first words and her last garbled attempt to say “3 are legend” while falling asleep. Her first steps and the last time she fit into that tiny onesie that was our favourite. I get wistful sometimes, imagining her newborn face as she clutched my finger, her eyes wide and curious as if she was already searching for the drop. Now, she bounces around our living room, hands in the air, yelling, “let’s dance” every time a beat hits, like she’s the main act and we’re just lucky to be there.
But I also get really, really happy. Happy that she’s growing into this tiny, perfect human with questionable dance moves and an impeccable sense of rhythm. Happy that she’s got her own little tastes emerging—like when she asked us to play “Fox Stevenson or Da Tweekaz or Martin Garrix.” Our hearts exploded.
There’s freedom in one and done. A kind of reckless abandon where every milestone is both celebrated and gently placed on the shelf like a limited-edition vinyl. We don’t have to worry about saving clothes, cribs, or sanity for a second round. We can just…be. Be her roadies, her fans, her VIP section. We are the front row of her concert, and every day is a new set-list. Today it’s colouring; tomorrow it might be existential meltdowns about why she can’t have sweets for breakfast. But hey, isn’t that just part of the show?
I won’t lie, though. There’s a twinge of delusion in there, too. A tiny, neon-lit corner of my mind that whispers: what if? What if we did it again? What if there was a sequel, a Volume 2? I imagine it for a second—two tiny ravers in the backseat, both yelling for Steve Aoki tracks and spilling water like it’s champagne at the Tomorrowland main stage. But then I remember the diaper blowouts, the sleepless nights, the chaos of corralling a toddler who’s mainlining sugar and bass drops. I snap back to reality. No, I think. We got it right the first time. The set was perfect. Why mess with perfection?
So yes, our only child is turning three. And we’re going to celebrate the hell out of it. We’ll crank up the music, decorate our house with animal-themed decorations, and dance until our legs give out. We’ll raise our glasses to the beauty of the firsts and the lasts. We’ll hold her a little tighter, sing a little louder, and marvel at the person she is becoming—unapologetically unique, endlessly loved.
As she drifts off to sleep, cheeks flushed from dancing, we’ll sit back and sigh, hearts full. One and done, but never less. One and done, but with all the love in the world. Our front-row view is everything we could ever want, and we wouldn’t change a single beat. She is our encore, our crescendo, our masterpiece in motion.
And when Sunday morning comes, and sunlight spills through her window like confetti from the night before, we’ll whisper “Happy Birthday” in her ear, knowing that she is our celebration, our perfect song. Three and thriving, with every beat of her heart echoing the only truth that matters—we are hers, and she is ours, always.
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