"How old is he now?" Somebody asked me.
"Six months. Almost seven"
"Six months! Already! It goes by so fast."
In the early days I'd rest my head on my hands on Oliver's cradle as I rocked him, overcome with the exhaustion of two young children and the loneliness of motherhood. And it felt almost as if time was moving against me, slowly, deliberately.
But then. Six months has gone by? Almost seven?
But we were only just bringing Oliver home from the hospital. Just re-learning all the things needed to care for a newborn. Just dressing him in those tiny sleepers that only really get worn once or twice and for that reason are so very precious.
And now, all of a sudden, he's looking less like a baby and more like a boy. And new things are happening.
His first two teeth have appeared.
He's eating real food.
He can roll from one end of the room to the other.
And is trying to crawl (not yet, please!).
He can almost sit up on his own.
I long for it to last: the sweetness of a baby is something that can never be replaced. And I long for it to not last too long. I look forward to seeing him grow up, become a man (gulp).
And then last week I said the unthinkable to J. After inhaling deeply, "Now don't freak out but..." He knew right away. "Part of me, a small part, a very small part, thinks maybe, possibly, I might, not definitely but maybe, one day, I'm not talking now, of course not. Like in three or four years..."