Notes to Myself - A Reminder that Nothing Lasts

Today, I rocked J to sleep for her midday nap. She laid her head on my arm - one hand under her cheek, the other holding my t-shirt - and chatted quietly to herself as I rocked. I watched her eyelids grow heavy, and marvelled at the length of her lashes when they finally fell closed. With her knees pulled up to her chest, one foot crossed over the other, she looked so small - nothing like the whirlwind toddler I've come to know.

Before A, I rocked J to sleep every day at nap time. It was my least favourite activity of the day: always a battle, always stopping me from getting on with all of the other things I could be doing. There was always a pile of unfolded laundry, or a an article I wanted to write, or even just a bar of chocolate calling my name that felt more important than helping her sleep. She should be able to fall asleep alone by now, I would think. It felt like it would go on forever, this phase of rocking her to sleep, and so I could hate it, I didn't need to savour the moment.

Now I know better. I know that there might not ever be another nap time when the house and baby are still enough, and J is willing. And so today I drank it all in. I felt the weight of her in my arms, watched her chest rise and fall, smiled at her dummy hanging out of parted lips.

Sometimes it takes a moment like this - an unexpected throwback to something I thought was just a memory now, or a note I made to myself about a favourite phrase or facial expression - to remind me that it's all like this. Every phase of their lives - the good and the bad - is so fleeting. And some day I'll probably miss them all.

I can't guarantee I'll remember this at 4am when A is singing, but I'll try. I'll try to remember that this is today, and tomorrow she'll be just that bit older, that bit bigger. And though she might still sing at 4am tomorrow, one day she'll stop, and I'll find myself trying to hear her little voice in the silence.