Felix turned ten months this week, yet in official terms his age is still zero. It’s a funny thing that for the first year of life, when we go through the most rapid and remarkable development we will ever experience, our age is classed as nothing. Especially if you consider that by the time a baby is born it is already over nine months old.
I mention this as I have recently been confounded by people making variations on the same remark, with the inherent expectation that I will agree. ‘Doesn’t it fly by?’ they remark while shaking their heads with a mournful air, ‘Seems like only yesterday that Felix was born’. ‘Yesterday?’ I think to myself in bewilderment. ‘Are you mad?’ His short life has been so packed with change, with growth, with discovery, that I feel a hundred years have passed since he entered the world. From being born helpless, nearly blind, unable to control his limbs, to being a curious, laughing, standing, sentient tiny person in ten months seems miraculous to me, and a thousand markers stand testament to every change. The day he ate his first solid food. The day he first stood up. The first time he smiled, laughed, got a joke. His first swim. His first wave. Each new skill is like the tiny dot of colour in a pointillist painting, and one of the ultimate pleasures of parenting is to stand back every now and then and see the points connecting into a painting of infinite beauty and complexity.
For me this richly layered tapestry of development gives the impression that time has slowed down; every week offers at least one remarkable change, whilst a month is time enough for complete transformation. Felix sheds skins like a hyperactive snake, and I gaze in wonderment as this tiny being takes shape before my very eyes. What I find fascinating is that although as parents we guide and teach our children, and take great satisfaction from watching them learn, a more magical and mysterious part of development is those changes that happen independently of any guidance, that appear spontaneously as their personality and likes and dislikes emerge and begin to crystalise. In the last couple of days Felix has formed a very strong attachment to an ancient dog-shaped pillow that I have had since childhood. Its fur is matted and its eyes are droopy with age, but he loves it nonetheless, and has taken to laying his head on it with an expression of adoration. Where this passion has come from I have no idea, but this battered old blue dog has well and truly stolen his heart.
Whilst we are on the subject of transformation, a profound change has materialised in Felix’s sleeping habits. At long last, and after months of disruption, Felix has started sleeping through the night. Halleluiah and Praise the Lord. I have been scared to write about it, or even mention it in case there was some kind of regression, but it seems to be holding. We are now in the third week of sleeping through and it is marvelous - although with certain drawbacks - for we have entered the dreaded 5am zone. Oh rude wake up call, I hear you roar. As a dedicated night owl, waking at such a time has been a gigantic shock, and there have been a couple of 445 wake-ups when I have peered at the time with a sense of bewilderment and denial. Thankfully these have ceased and he seems to have stablised between five and six am.
Old habits die hard however, and the night owls have had to undergo their own sleep training. Previously bedtime in our house has been around midnight, often later. This is no longer acceptable, and thus a process of adjustment is underway with bedtime slowly shifting back around the clock. The Mediterranean style nine pm dinners have gone, as have the eleven o’clock baths. Writing till one am, my most prized quiet time when the night is still and the mind can freely process and express the thoughts of the day has been banished, replaced with morning nap writing. While Felix sleeps peacefully, exhausted from a heavy morning of play and swings and sometimes an early bike ride – more on that next time – mummy writes. Or reads. Or just sits and gazes out of the window at the verdantly green lime tree. The scales have tipped one way and then another, finding their balance once again, and I am quietly discovering the delights of morning.
I rise with the sun just peeping over the roofs of the houses opposite, and the air is fresh and clean and lovely like a crisply laundered sheet. It has been hot recently, proper midsummer hot, and by nine the freshness of dawn has long evaporated. But in the early morning, just an hour or so past dawn, the air is redolent with the scent of promise, of paradise, of wonder. While the sun rises outside and starts to warm the earth, browning the grass and heating the sea and ripening the harvest, our son rises in his cot, his smile beaming out like the rays of that huge star overhead. Felix greets each new day like a lottery winner receiving a cheque promising £1,000,000. His joy at simply being awake is startling. He scrambles to his feet, chubby hands gripping the bars of the cot, and begins his morning exercises of ‘up and down’. Gritty eyed we smile through the cobwebs of sleep at his face, aglow with happiness and radiant with wakefulness. ‘Hello world’ he bugles wordlessly from the cot’ ‘It’s a beautiful day and a beautiful world and I can’t wait to get out there and start enjoying myself’. And despite my die-hard late-night habits, I find myself in thrall to his morning zest and energy. The night owl has taken a bite of the early birds worm, and might even get a taste for it...