We had a great afternoon at the pub a few weeks ago - one of those impromptu times where we met a friend for a swim, got a phone call from another, and the next thing we knew, we were at the pub cheersing beer with a bunch of mates. Of course, all too quickly it got to a certain time of the evening, and I headed home to put to bed two tired kids on my own. Later, after the house was quiet, I sat on the lounge and couldn't help but feel the deep unfairness of it all. Shane was out, kicking up his heels and having interesting and fun adult conversations, while I was home alone, sober, at the ready to breastfeed Clancy at a moments whimper.
But then I realised that if Clancy breastfeeds for as long as you did, then we're almost halfway there already - and wow, has that almost first half gone by in the blink of an eye. All of a sudden, instead of resentment, I felt an overwhelming sadness about it all ending. Almost inexplicably, I began to will my little boy to wake up so I could feed him. Such is the irony of this life, I suppose. I can feel tired of something I wouldn't change for the world.
I need to remember; this time is my sacrifice, and this time is my privilege. It's beautiful, it's extraordinary, it's exhausting. And it has an end. It's all going to be over in a damn flash.
PS The best article I've read on motherhood in a long time.
PPS The extended info on the photos below tells me CC was just a week old when they were taken. (And he's wearing my all time favourite woollen pants from Paul and Paula, Typically Red pixie hat, a cardi hand knitted by my friends Mum, and Marimekko socks.)