Sitting in the semi-darkness, waiting for Pickle to go to sleep in his big bed for the first time. He keeps calling out for a big cuddle, and it’s taking all my strength not to lie down and envelope him in my arms.
He looks so small, lying cocooned in his new big duvet. His cot mattress is on the floor, to make it easier for him to get in and out of the bed, and I can’t help but think he looked safer behind the bars of the cot.
For the past seven or eight months, he’s been waking in the night, and I’ve stumbled across the hall, blindly picked him up, and tucked him into bed beside me. The theory is that if he wakes now, I can slide into his bed for a cuddle, and slide out again once he’s asleep.
In reality, I think I’m going to miss having his tiny little body squished next to mine in my big bed.
I’ll miss waking up with his soft, fine hair tickling my face, and the occasional head-butt-in-the-teeth followed by, “Are you okay, Mummy?”
I’ll miss him shooting upright as soon as Tall turns on his bedside lamp and announcing, “It’s morning time! Time for break-bix” (a confusion of breakfast and Weet-Bix).
However, it is time for me to reclaim my nights, and my sleep. The past two years of broken sleep are catching up on me.
But as I sit here, I can’t help but wish, for the umpteenth time, that time would just slow down.
Just a smidgen.