Fleeting Moments

Today began at 4am. In the midst of a very boring dream about being late for work (I also have a recurring dream about forgetting to do my coursework – I graduated 9 years ago) I was woken by my husband stumbling blindly out of bed, responding to the bloodcurdling scream emitting from the next room.

Our 15 month old son inhabits that room, to be clear. We are not, contrary to what such sounds would have the neighbors believe, running a torture chamber.

Exhausted from both pregnancy and, apparently, already having been awoken by said husband karate chopping his bedside table in response to a night terror, I tried to stay put. I even tried, laughably with the volume of it all, to pretend I was still asleep. Alas, after mere moments it became clear that the decibels were increasing, that my equally tired husband, fresh from a night shift, was starting to lose his cool, and that his soothing shushing had turned to panicked pleading.

It also became clear that one of us was about to take a hit, in order to save the other. Our choice was a simple one: either someone sits and rocks the howling, thrashing baby back to sleep, or we both lie either side of him as he slaps his octopus limbs about between us in our own bed, and no-one gets any rest.

I volunteered as tribute.

Transferring our whaling little boy from his cot to the designated cuddles chair now housed in the nursery, I pulled the spare duvet over us both and proceeded to rock back and forth as he sobbed and protested, quietly singing the first two verses of ‘hush little baby’ over and over again, not for the first time wishing I knew what happened beyond that damn diamond ring that refuses to shine.

A million years later, he passed out on my shoulder.

But not before cheekily blowing me a kiss, politely thanking me with a ‘ta’ for my efforts, and popping his dummy into his mouth using his own hands.

It was in that moment, that early morning moment, that I realised how much he’s grown. Because it’s not so long ago that placing his own dummy was an impossible task. He’d sit and try to get the angle right for hours, always ending up going in at just the wrong slant, or dropping it entirely. Only last month, he hadn’t mastered blowing kisses, and just a couple of weeks have passed since he began to understand the concept of thanking people for their kindnesses.

Now, in that sleepy shared moment, he could do all of those previously unmastered things. And here I was, at 5’o’clock on a cold December morning, watching him by the light of the moon(/lamppost) as he lay across a belly containing the new family baby. And we were sat in a chair that I had spent at least a week’s worth of hours soothing him to sleep in, but that had been replaced by a play tent in his own space, moved along to hold another tiny human, who would soon need us more – in this capacity, at least – than this one now did. And it hit home that this baby, this beautiful baby who may as well have had my own heart beating inside his chest, for it now belonged to him in its entirety, was in fact a running, hide and seek playing, artwork producing toddler, and not a baby at all.

It makes sense, then, in light of such a realisation, that moments like this have become an anomaly. Brought on by a simultaneous winter cold and bout of teething, they are fleeting and, as exhausting and frustrating as they can be, they are precious. The time of my baby needing to be held by his mama has passed, and this one night of him clinging tightly to me as I stroked his hair and assured him he was OK is not only a rarity, but a moment I will have to remember to treasure…

… Even if the weight of him did result in horrific heartburn.

And even if I do now resemble the walking dead.

♡

{Image by Ella Baxter}