We are talking about the house again. It’s not a long conversation by any means. I would have hoped agreeing to buy it would end them for a bit. But it hasn’t. I am fundamentally not that annoyed by the conversation. There is a part of me sulking though.
While we are on practical matters, she says, we need to start thinking about childcare.
I spend the next three minutes or so trying not to cry. What kind of animal leaves their baby with other people. Most people. Of course. And there’s nothing wrong with it. But it’s kind of heartbreaking to think about it, my tiny boy upset in the corner of a room where no-one cares about him.
Of course, I am imagining the worst case scenario. It’s what I do. Every ache or pain has been cancer since I was about 25.
The most likely scenarios involve him developing brilliantly surrounded by children of a similar age. I think about these good scenarios. It still makes me want to cry.
It is not around the corner, I rationalise. But he is SEVEN MONTHS OLD tomorrow. We are nearer to him being in full time childcare than we are to his birth.
I desperately, desperately want it all to slow down. A little bit. For a while. Each tiny development is taking him a little bit further away from needing me. That last sentence is knowingly over the top to illustrate how I feel. And it is true at the same time.
I make a note to try and ensure we enjoy these last few months of it being like this and remember that he is still out little lamb for now.
While I have been typing this Woodrow has started walking, had his first gin and graduated from University.