Malcolm is turning one tomorrow. Wow. Wow wow wow. Our mantra for the past year has been, “Just get through the first year, get through the first year…”. And here we are.
Yes, things are better. He is better, we are better. The mantra has proven useful. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, being medicated has helped. A bunch.
It turns out that Malcolm’s nursing strike was not a strike at all, but yet another big fat middle finger to my expectations and sanity. The weeks following his supposed “strike” was an anxiety ridden cluster%$#@ of screaming, by both him and me. How do I feed an infant who has rejected his primary source of his nutrition? A child who doesn’t crawl, feed himself, or take in hydration of any sort. You can imagine.
Today I can say that he is on his way to crawling and also drinks from a sippy cup. Thank God. And he has the most infectious sweet little smile. And even though he is often a punk, I still wonder what I would do without that smile, those cankles, and his belly laugh. The paradox of feeling at the end of myself one moment, then the next moment feeling like my heart is so full it might burst. Its bizarre. And lovely. I look forward to the next year with my littles.