My baby boy is two years old. How is that possible? I look at him and I see a composite of all the babies he’s been – tiny scrawny scrunched-up newborn, wide-eyed wobble-headed 3-month-old, giggly dribbly 6-month-old, pink-cheeked tiny-toothed 1-year-old, marauding guffawing toddler. And I feel torn in two: loving every new thing (today he picked out his name on a label for the first time) but mourning the loss of my baby.
I don’t remember feeling this first time round, and I can’t work out why. Maybe this time I realize just how fleeting and irretrievable it is, or maybe last time I knew that (God willing) I’d be doing it again, so there wasn’t the same sense of finality. Or maybe it’s just because C was a downright miserable baby, and I mainly felt relief as she grew older and more fun to be with! And it’s not that I actively want more babies – at least my head is clear that I don’t want any more. And luckily my head is in charge of family planning 
So I have formulated a plan: I will have a very large glass of wine and possibly a bar of chocolate and bawl a bit about how my babies are growing up so fast. And then I’ll stop wallowing and get on with enjoying the next adventure.
