When your last baby moves into his big boy cot

Nine months in, (near enough anyway) nine months out. This baby boy is getting bigger each second I look at him

So last night we took the plunge. Enough was enough. He was wriggling all over the show. The time had come…

Yes. We did it.

We finally moved the baby from his SnuzPod into his big boy cot in his own room.

And I already miss him

(And the fact that now I have to get out of bed when he wakes up at night. But that is a whole other story.)

Something just feels so grown up at him laying down to go to sleep not next to me. I can’t glance over and see his little chest rising and falling. I can’t just lay my hand on his back and breathe in his baby smell.

And, for some reason, this milestone feels massive. It feels like he is taking a great big giant leap out of babyhood.

Which in itself I know is ridiculous. Remember – he is nine months old.

He can’t crawl, walk, talk. (Though he is desperate to do all of the above). He is reliant on me for everything. Yet, somehow, this step feels equivalent to me waving off my four year old to reception earlier this month.

They just grow so fast

So, so fast. Maybe it’s looking at him, placidly sitting on the ground, looking the image of his big brother at the same age, then looking at said big brother tearing round on his bike with no front teeth.

Or the photo on the fridge of the four year old as a baby, and then the same child coming in to give me sass.

And I know that I moan about the hard days, the not sleeping, the relentless exhaustion of parenthood.

And it IS hard

I never thought I’d wake up in the morning and say “oh my, what a wonderful night we had I only got up twice, AND we lay in until 6am”.

But I do.

And willingly. Most of the time. Because I also never realised what incredible little humans I would be lucky enough to call my sons.

The in depth and insightful conversations with my seven year old. Sharing passions and reading Harry Potter together. (FYI the illustrated version of Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone is something I should have bought YEARS ago!!) Watching as he grows up and more independent. These days he can even make us all dinner!

Laughing until I cry at the four year olds antics. His silly sense of humour. The love and cuddles he gives out. The way he can get absorbed into his own little world of Playmobil.

And the cuddles from the baby. Watching as his fat, little thighs tremble from the efforts of standing. Marvelling as he changes from day to do.

So yes. It is hard. But it is also short.

There is no truer quote than:

the days are long, but the years are short

Gretchen Rubin

And the transfer into his big boy cot has just symbolised that my baby, my last ever baby, is growing up fast. Faster than his brothers. Faster than I want him too.

And it’s such a privilege to watch them, but suddenly I am all too aware that as our “firsts” keep coming, the “lasts” will be right behind.