One.

One year ago, I was marvelling, yet again, at the miracle of life, cuddling my new baby boy, smelling his sweetness and enjoying the novelty of his red hair. I had the birth experience to beat all birth experiences, and I was on a high that nothing could drag me down from. I loved him with my whole heart and knew him from the moment he slid into my weakened arms. But his arrival ushered in one of the hardest periods of my life. Judd simply refused to do anything that baby books/modern science/old ladies/parents of ‘perfect’ babies/I expected him to. He would not sleep any longer than 20 minutes unless he was held, he would not suck on a dummy, he would not drink from a bottle, he would not fall asleep in the car or the pram, in fact all he would do in the car or the pram was scream. Life became a really awful game – one you would ‘win’ (ie, lessen the crying somehow) if you were able to work out how to get from A to B with a baby and two older children in under 10 minutes (10 minutes being the maximum amount of time you could handle the screaming without starting to scream yourself). Life was s&%t. It really was. I woke each morning willing the day away, I woke feeling sad and scared, despite the love I felt, despite the beauty I beheld every time I looked at my son. I just couldn’t work out how to take care of him to the degree he required it – swaddled to my chest, 24/7 – plus take care of two other kids who needed me so, so much, as well as, you know, eat, talk to other adults, wash myself. And I’ve never been good with a poker face. I couldn’t hide it, and I didn’t even try. Everyone who knew me knew I was miserable. Including my children, and that was the worst bit. We tried so many things to ‘fix’ Judd, but Judd was, and is, his own little person, with a definite agenda and a determined spirit. But slowly, the tension eased, bit by tiny bit, until, wow – life was happy again. I smiled – not just for fleeting moments, but for hours. The tension started to die the day I let myself off the hook, and accepted that I had a baby who was absolutely terrible at doing lots of baby things, but who was funny, delicious, and, when left to live as he wanted to, full of a palpable joy that touched everyone around him. Judd is cheeky. He is very physical, very busy, strong in body and mind. He loves to eat, as long as the food proffered is not baby food, and he loves to breastfeed. The ecstasy associated with our breastfeeding experience is so hard to put into words – it is something that only we share, something that is sacred and ours. Only twice a day these days – once, as he wakes, he sucks gently, half asleep and I brush his growing hair back from his eyes and enjoy the quiet. The second one is before bed, when he is playful and excitable, once it’s over he dives towards whatever has caught his eye, he is totally unstoppable. He walks now, ‘reads’ books, loves his Dad, hates to sleep, kisses cheeks and lips, playfully and randomly rests his head on pillows, bangs his many hammers, scribbles with crayons, cuddles into shoulders and under chins, and knows so much love. He took me to hell and then to heaven, and I am completely addicted to his firm, round body and his lively, loving soul. He finishes off our family of five. Happy birthday Bubba Boy. I always loved you, even when I hated the life we were living together, I promise you I did. These days, it’s all good.

School boy...

Oti, you were up early, wearing a nervous smile, a quickened pulse and a desire to get dressed in your uniform before eating your breakfast (which I didn’t allow… Honey on toast has the tendency to stick to clothing). You carted your school bag around the house with you, it sat right by your chair as you ate, and next to you on the couch while you watched TV. Like a cherished pet, it was never out of arm’s length, ever available for patting… Your uniform is crisp and a little baggy. The blue is deep, stark – it matches your navy blue eyes so beautifully. Your shoes look so chunky against your little sticks of legs. Your hair, full of body as always, looking professionally highlighted with those lovely white bits at your temple, sits as it should and smells fresh and innocent. You go to the toilet numerous times, giving you ample opportunity to wash your hands, a task you enjoy and really cling to. You are a very clean boy. Bordering on too clean. We brush your teeth, including your tongue – because you would hate to smell – and I stroke your head often. I want you to know that I know. I remember how it feels. We’re early – get used to it mate, I love punctuality – and Daddy and Grammy are there too, we all know this is a Big Day. We want you to bask in our love, to put our love for you in your pocket and carry it with you, to use it to give you strength when you feel unsure or lost. Your buddy arrives and your face lights up. You seem keener on being with him than with us. A sign of things to come, the move away from Mum and Dad, the move towards a social life that is independent of us. The very reason Mums often cry when their children start school… You two chat about Harry Potter and Star Wars and Movie World, a chat that I initially mediate somewhat, but then tell myself to exit. You draw, and you smile shyly. You ask me to take your drawing home, as you made it for Peggy. You proudly tell your teacher your name, and she is already aware of it. Its uniqueness is paying off – she has never met an Otis before. You stand out already. You don’t cry when we leave, but I do, once out of sight. Just a couple of tears. Tears for what we had, that I am sure I didn’t fully appreciate. Tears for the times you will miss me and wish you were at home. Tears for your relationship with Peggy, which will never be what it was. Now I sit here and picture your face. I hope it has a smile on it.