We’re having a lazy day today. J is playing with playdoh and I (shock horror) am not yet dressed at half four in the afternoon. I went out for a couple of drinks last night and J stayed at my mums. I came in at midnight to him peacefully asleep on the fold out bed I slept on when he was first born.
When J was born I was almost 18 and living at my mums. I came home from the hospital to find the box room set up ready for our arrival: swinging crib for J, fold out bed for me, shelves of baby paraphernalia, the first newborn photos already in frames by my bed, and the rocking chair my mum bought for me when I was first pregnant. It wasnt much, but it was our little space together. By chance, it was already painted baby blue and it was perfect for us. I would lift him out of his crib in the night to breast feed him and those early morning moments were the most precious of all, while the rest of the world slept I would cuddle my tiny son to my chest, and when he was drifting off again I would sit up in bed to let him fall asleep on me before lifting him back into his crib.
We only stayed in that room for six weeks. I was exhausted, I was tearful, I was fat, I was a little frightened of my vulnerable bundle, but when I look back at those first few weeks, I would love to do it all over again. So i got in beside my three year old and we slept together once more on that fold out bed. So much has happened since then, and motherhood has proved to be such an amazing, eventful journey. I never thought it would be quite this wonderful.