Tonight, for the first night in her life, my Elma will sleep in her cot. Up until now she’s been tucked up in a Moses basket by the side of my bed, mere inches away from me, but I can’t delude myself any longer that she really has outgrown its cozy embrace; she’s ready for a bit more space.
I, on the other hand, am not ready. Not even slightly. In fact there’s a good chance that come bedtime I’ll just tuck her up alongside me, same as always. It’s not like she’s moving that far; our house is a lovely size but nowhere near McMansion proportions and I’ll still be able to hear her and reach her in seconds if she needs me.
But it is another step under the inescapable juggernaut of time, a sure fire indicator that my babies will never stay as those tiny sleepy bundles of squish we brought home from the hospital, all smelling of milk, fresh laundry and that newborn smell that defies description. And of course, I don’t really want them to stay as babies forever, my job is to love them, cherish them, nourish them in body and soul, and ultimately let them loose on the world.
It is for the most part a wonderful adventure, watching these girls find their way through the world; celebrating their firsts and sharing their exploring. But it’s going so quickly. Faster even than with Kitty and showing no signs of slowing down any time soon. It would be a hardcore Mama indeed who doesn’t watch their children grow before their very eyes without a tiny wistful sigh.
The girl in question is currently tucked up in the crook of my arm playing blerum, holding my left index finger in her petite but vice-like grasp, having the occasional chew on my thumb, cozy and happy. And at bedtime I will snuggle her up in her own tranquil little room with her name on the door, but I’m going to miss waking up to those beautiful grey-blue eyes smiling across at me.
Still, if I’m very lucky, there might just be a two year old asleep on my head.