It had been a week.
7 full nights.
Not such a long time, but in the time warp that is parenting it can feel like both eternity and the blink of an eye.
I’ve spent so much time craving this, dreaming of it, dreaming of uninterrupted dreams and silent nights.
And then I got into bed last night and realised that it had been 7 full nights since I last felt you standing by the bed, whispering…
‘momma, I had a bad dream’
or ‘momma, I was scared’
or ‘momma, I missed you’
My not-just-so-small boy, who turned 6 last week only calls me ‘momma’ when he is feeling small, when he needs a cuddle. Most other times I’m just Mum or Mom…both bellowed in his loud, not to be ignored voice. But momma gets me every time, it’s hard to be cross when someone calls you that.
I felt sad as I lay there and realised this.
Cross with myself for having wished away that last remaining thread of small children.
Cross with myself that I hadn’t even noticed.
When you have children all the firsts are celebrated.They are marked and boasted about, they are photographed and posted online.
But the lasts just slip quietly away, unnoticed.
I lay in bed last night and I thought I’d missed it, the last of our small-children lasts.
And then I woke to feel you standing by the bed, warm but in need of cuddles, whispering
‘momma, can I get in?’
Relief swept through me.
That last is close, I can feel it now, but it’s not here yet, so I will savour these interruptions, and waking to have a not-quite-so-small hand holding mine.