It's all a phase

It's a phase is my solace and my sorrow. My mantra and my mourning.

He wakes up, I stumble blearily into his room and nurse him to sleep again, counting to 50 until I stand up and then rock him some more, counting again for no real reason other than it's what I do now. I ease him down into his crib, pausing if he resists, ready to rock again. Slowly, slowly, praying and begging for this to work, I rest him down and wait. He cries. I resist the urge to scream and stamp and instead pick up and soothe and repeat again. And again. And again. Then I give up and bring him into my bed, nurse him to sleep beside me and we both sleep - him more comfortably than me.

It's a phase. (It better bloody be a phase)

He wriggles awake and looks around, finding my face and smiles the sweetest smile, looking up at me and gazing in wonder as I gaze in wonder down. It's 6am but that face, that smile, that look.

It's a phase.

He rolls back to front and yells. He doesn't like to be on his front and even though he can roll the other way, he doesn't seem to have figured out that it's the solution to his problem. Or that rolling over in the first place isn't the best idea. We roll him back, he rolls again.

It's a phase.

We play peekaboo except just hiding behind our hands isn't enough - we have to hide behind couches and jump up like a jack-in-the-box. He laughs, gurgles, cackles. We hide and jump, hide and jump - anything for that laugh.

It's a phase.

He's half a year old now. Half a year of him and life without him seems an impossibility. My heart aches when I hear of mothers losing children - I can't get as far as actually imagining it, it's too deep and dark. That my own mum lost two sons makes my soul weep for her; makes the fact that she continued living and provided us a home full of laughter and fun and security and love actually incredible. Each phase of W seems to last a lifetime and pass in a flashing moment. Naps are too short, nights are too long, except if I sleep in which case they're too short. The hour before Jeremy gets home is the longest of the whole day. It's all a strange combination of exhaustion, joy, boredom, delight and wonder. I wouldn't change a thing (except the sleep bit).