I’m sure I dropped a not-quite-toddler off at the childminders this week and collected a little boy five hours later; a little boy who was sitting playing cars, interacting, smiling, and very proud of his new shoes. Oh time, just let me press pause for a little moment; let me catch my breath and savour it all a little bit more. Surely it was only yesterday that I watched in amazement as those blue lines emerged on the pregnancy test …. and soon that little cluster of cells will be walking …
Miraculous; this thing called life. We should never get so bogged down by the mundane that we neglect to appreciate the miracle. I still look at my sleeping babe and wonder how I made him; how my womb carried him, how my ladyparts expelled him, and how my breasts continue to feed him. I wonder how I’ve survived on so little sleep; and yet realise how these precious days will not be remembered for tiredness, but for all the memories and moments they contain.Sometimes I need reminding of this at 2.34am when I’m on the third feed of the night … [I have been known to utter profanities, and then worry that Fuck will be his first word …]
My little boy is nearly 13 months old, rosy cheeked from the eruption of yet more molars. He’s at that “I want to feed myself yet can’t quite manage it” phase, which often results in my culinary labours being hurled across the kitchen at speed. I found myself reasoning with him last week “darling, there are starving children in the world who would love momma’s Spaghetti Bolognaise”. As I said it I heard echoes of my own childhood responses … “send it to them then, I don’t want it!” Please eat it sweetheart. Momma worries if you don’t eat …
It often feels that my greatest daily achievement is getting us both out of the flat dressed, washed and fed, by 8am. By the time I sit at my desk at work, I am just grateful for a hot cup of tea which I can drink with both hands. I can even go to the loo without an audience.
No one could’ve told me how hard this would be and yet how wonderful. I worry that this Blog has become a cliched melange of fromage – but my sleep deprived brain means every word. Single motherhood is a path no one would choose; and yet it is something of which I’m proud. We’re doing this, and we’re doing this well … even on the days when it feels like the treadmill is going too fast, or the lack of sleep is going to destroy every last brain cell.
20.47; I’m sitting in bed wearing mismatching pyjamas and drinking a nice glass of Sauvignon Blanc, Fredders snoring beside me. My little bit of perfect.
When my baby wakes up he will be 1. At 4.39am precisely he will have been in the world for a whole year [plus one day, with the leap year?] A year! A year! How did this happen? I could tell you in great detail what I was doing a year ago this evening … those industrious hours before Fredders propelled himself into the birthing pool, and life [not to mention my pelvic floor] was never the same again.
of wine, reminiscing about the amazingness of March 5th 2015. As it is, I’m sitting in bed beside a sleeping Fred, drinking tea. Antibiotics for stubborn chest infection have left me rather off colour this week … but now I have regained a voice, I’m confident that tomorrow’s party will go off well. The wonderful toybox arrived and has already got Master Worthington-Phillips’ approval. His presents and balloons are waiting in the lounge …
And out popped Fredders 