Jamie has been with us for approximately as long as it took me to gestate him. It's a little bittersweet for me, to be honest.
The sweet comes in many forms. Nine months means he's not a newborn anymore and that we're nearing the end of the infant stage. It means that we've almost survived the first year of his life, which is no small feat. We're also in mile 24 of the marathon that is breastfeeding. I'm starting to plan out how I'm going to wean him. He's starting to make strides toward sleeping through the night - for the last several nights he's been up only once instead of his usual twice. Nursing during that wakening has been what I can only describe as desultory. He'll do it but he's not ravenous. I've lived the last 5 years of my life with interrupted sleep. I'm fairly certain I won't know what to do when I have two children that consistently sleep through.
The bitter comes from knowing that from age 1 until age 4 we will live in a constant state of butting heads with him as he learns how to behave like a civilized human being. Everyone says that two is the worst age but they lie. They say that tantrums start at two but they lie. Tantrums start within days of the 1st birthday and I can tell you in painful detail how much worse age three is than age two. So, I know that in some ways it's all downhill from here.
Which leads me wonder to myself on a daily basis why I had a baby just when Liam was exiting that lovely little stage of development and becoming someone I liked having around instead of someone I had to endure.
I think I'm going to soak up as much cute over the next three months as I can. I'm going to take all the cuddles he'll give me - which are becoming less and less as he becomes more and more mobile. I'm going to store up all those things that make infancy wonderful against the days when he's Terrifically Terribly Three.
Happy Nine Months, stinker. Thanks for lighting up our world with your smiles.