Astonishment

When I think that Mark is turning six tomorrow, I am astonished. He has evolved from a squalling, spiky haired newborn to a gangly, spiky haired six year old. Six years ago, his single greatest accomplishment was latching on correctly; last week he got his first report card. I could repeat every single cliché about the rapid passage of time, and it would not be enough.

But yet time did not speed by, not always; there were many interminable days and weeks and months, when the clock moved so very slowly, as anyone at home with small children can relate. Often when the boys are in school I will run errands amid mothers who are still in that stage; they are exhausted, and frantic, and desperate just to get out of their houses; they are corralling preschoolers and soothing crying infants and looking mortified at their tantruming toddlers and I know, I know they feel that this stage will never pass but I look at them with sympathy and think it will. It will and it does and in hindsight it is a mere blink of an eye.

I have written about my pregnancy and labour here and here, and so I will try not to repeat myself.

The day my doctor poked my puffy, pre-eclampsic face and announced I would be induced within twenty-four hours, I was astonished, astonished that it was actually happening, on my wedding anniversary no less, that I was going to be a mother. When Mark was born I felt overwhelmed, adoring, and astonished at my sheer luckiness. I still feel that way, six years later.