Four months ago...
Monday, 25th April 2016
...a squealing, red-faced, squashed, cross little Winston Churchill lookalike entered into the world. And started to make his presence felt.
Last night, for the first time in his little life, we slept in separate rooms.
It was sooner than I had planned. I had been insistent that he would stay in with us until he reached 6 months. But I had reckoned without him. He had grown out of his little bedside crib (the one that was meant to last until he was at least 6 months old) and was banging his arms and head on the sides. The cotbed in the nursery wouldn't fit into our room. But I still hoped we could spin it out a little longer - while simultaneously looking forward hugely to moving him across the landing.
Then circumstances intervened. Returning from a weekend away, we were disconcerted to find the house cold, the radiators dead. A short investigation revealed that we had burned through all the heating oil. The only rooms we could heat were the living room with its log burner and the nursery, with a little plug-in heater. Decision made for us. In he went.
I probably shouldn't feel guilty that, despite his demands for three night feeds, we all slept better than we have for a while. I should be happy that he looked so comfortable and happy in his cot, that he fell asleep so easily, that I dropped back off almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. And part of me is happy, and I don't intend to move him back.
It's just that when people told me how fast he'd grow up, I didn't believe them. It's just that the newborn days and nights felt eternal. And although he may not quite be applying for university and looking for a flatshare just yet, I've suddenly realised that one day he will.
And it's hit me that although he'll be my son forever, he won't always be my baby.