Baby Steps

Last evening, dear Zara, I read in the Babycentre newsletter an article on toddlers and sleep. It said that the way you're put to sleep is exactly what you'd look for when you'd wake up in the middle of the night. I remember reading this in the context of nursing you at night and how I'd have to resort to it should you wake up mid-sleep.

Over the last couple of weeks, you have been going to sleep on my tummy. Not sure if it's the warmth of my flesh that you find comforting or the low rumbling sound within...or maybe you find it to be a cosy cushion to sink into (note to self: belly flab seems to have some utility after all) But it is tummy you seek and tummy you get. You know how to demand it too, and chant 'tummy, tummy, tummyyyyy' if I try to put you on your tiny pillow instead ('pi-yo no no!'). Obviously then, every time you wake up you've been wanting to lie on my stomach again to go back to sleep. But tonight was different.

Inspired by that article, I began my attempts at transitioning you away from the tummy and into the pi-yo, so that you'd go back to sleep without needing me to lift you out of the crib and bringing you to sleep next to me (Usually, a daily 4am ritual). So tonight I sang to you while stroking your hair and rubbing your belly, as you like it (such a cat!). And you in turn let me put you on your chhotu pillow next to me. But somewhere in the middle of the third song, you raised a sleepy head and demanded 'tummy!' I gave up with a sigh, resolving to revive efforts the following night.  So on my tummy your head went, tossing this way and that in the no man's land between sleep and wakefulness. Some 10mins into this, as I was drifting off myself, you raised a tiny finger and said 'Cwib', pointing in the dark towards the side of the bed. 'Crib?', I asked, with a tinge of incredulity. 'Cwib', you repeated in a soft voice. I wordlessly lifted you from my tummy and lowered you in your crib. You turned to your side and curled up into deep slumber.

Tonight, you took a precious few steps towards claiming your own space. My baby, you're growing up. And apart, literally.

01 March, 2017
11:30pm

Today

Today, Zara, I got a glimpse into what it might be like once you've grown-up.

This afternoon, as I announced your bath, you went and sat on the ledge in our room, the one adjoining the window, and urged me to 'Besi' (pronounced 'bey-see', a word your nani keeps using with you, comes from the Gujarati 'Besi jaa', sit) You urgently slapped the warm floor next to you until I relented. Just a while back, I'd lustily read out to you, 'What is this life so full of care...' How could I refuse?

You looked rather pleased at having me next to you on this sun-bathed low seating. The late afternoon rays filtered through your hair, making it look brown, just like mine. I put my arm around little you, smiled, and said 'Hi!' You responded cheerfully with the same 'Hii!' In a flash I saw us at a lazy cafe, two decades from now, swapping stories over steaming cups of coffee ('Kokkee' is what you call it right now). You seemed like such a friend, one I'd love to hang out with. You already are.

You spotted my purple hairbrush next to your tiny white one. While I asked for the latter, you promptly got up and fetched both. A moment later you were insisting on combing my hair. As I let warm sunlight filter through mine, I glanced sideways to see your face intent, trying to brush my unruly hair. I smiled to myself. Will we be braiding each other's hair a decade from now? How lovely it would be to have a gal-pal in the house.

I kept trying to get up to take you to your bath, and you kept pulling me back with your 'Mamma! Beysiiii!' Everything is an exclamation in your world. You exclaim, I pause.

In that one pause this afternoon, I saw an eternity.