My baby turned six months old today. We’ve made it for half a year! My son has survived six months of my clumsy, yet earnest parenting. I’ve survived sleepless nights and ungodly amounts of worry. My partner has accepted my complaining and directions with grace and patience.
I feel like I’m starting to get into some kind of parenting groove. I can tell what my baby needs by his cries and whines. My partner and I work in this effortless system where we can communicate without words; there are many times that one of us will get up to warm a bottle or grab a pacifier to find that the other has already done it. I no longer feel like my life is turned upside down, but instead struggle to remember what life was like without a baby around (what the hell did I do with my time?) Instead of feeling like a fumbling fraud, I’m starting to feel more like an actual parent.
It’s so bittersweet to wish my baby a happy six-month birthday. I don’t know why it feels so sad. I used to scoff at the moms who cried during their baby’s first haircut or on the first day of school. Now I get it. I’m obviously overjoyed that he is a healthy and happy and growing baby. But I also know that there are certain moments with him that I’ll never get back. The days of him falling asleep in my arms are numbered. Pretty soon he’ll be moving on his own. There will be a day when he won’t need me to carry him around, or feed him, or give him a bath. I’m firmly entrenched in what one of my friends calls “mom time”: the days can feel like they last forever, but the months fly by in the wink of an eye.
I’m excited for what is to come. I’m starting to see more of my son’s personality every day. I can’t wait until we can talk to each other and I get to know who he’ll be as a person. But please let him stay my little baby, just a little bit longer.