As of the 9th of June I am the proud owner of two year old. I run the risk of sounding utterly cliche here but seriously how did that happen? I so fondly remember documenting my pregnancy here. Weekly updates about symptoms and photographs of tiny baby grows my future baby would one day wear. Even in those moment I don’t think I ever imagined a real human being who was about to rock my world. A little 7 pound 12 Oz ball of utter beauty who would save me in so many ways – who would help me see the world with fresh beautiful hazel eyes. 
                                                       
This is my two year old. He sometimes wears a ponytail or a top-knot. He always dances and he still breastfeeds before bed. He loves his grub and would happily eat a punnet of raspberries or chopped up cherry tomatoes. He would also devour endless amounts of “kips” (crisps) and tocolate. 
He asked for a bop bop at the weirdest of times and I’ll often just give it to him. I water it down with some water so he doesn’t turn in to a cow. He also absolutely positively wants to breastfeed before he goes to sleep. Weird eh? You think it would be one or the other. It’s OK though – I’m happy. We’re happy.

People tell me that he is the most social child they have ever met. I take that one as a huge compliment but really he is his own little person. He is that kid who kisses the newborns and dances with the older kids at the playgroup. Not always well-received by the children but totally has the approval of their parents. He’s noticing his toys now. He gets down on his hunkers and throws his figurines down the “side” (slide) which is in fact a ramp in his little car garage. Watching him play and discover is like an out of body type of pride. I can’t explain it.

He’s started smacking. It’s great crack altogether. Never say “my child would never do that”. I knew better but I have heard people say similar recently. He’s noticed other kids doing it and he has decided to take it up himself. I try explaining that it’s not OK. Then he makes me laugh. He is as cute.

                                             

His second birthday came and went in a bit of a blur in lots of ways. He had a lovely few days with far too many presents and copious amounts of cake. It was hard to relax in a lot of ways because my Dad had a very important appointment a day after. The results of his scan. The big scan that was going to tell us if the treatment was working. We got good news and I am thanking the universe. The treatment is working and the tumour has reduced in sizes. The cancer is still in the various places. Still stage four. But it’s not worse and it is actually a little better. We are so unbelievably grateful and thanking our lucky stars. My Dad has been the strongest man in the world throughout this. His symptoms are bad and he is going through the mill but he remains strong, optimistic and totally supportive and loving towards us. He is an inspiration. Fathers Day was just lovely this year.

Life as a trio is great. As always Peter is my partner in crime and we make a solid team. It is rare that a day passes without laughter. In the midst of the chores, the tantrums and the exhaustion we have the best time together. We try to make the most of the good stuff. Do lots of it. We can generally be found eating out far too much at the weekend. Champagne ideas and lemonade money eh?

                                             

And sure then there is the sleep. Are you bored of the sleep talk yet? I’m fully convinced that parenting is just a succession of sleep discussions. They sleep. They don’t. They sleep. They don’t.

Last week he didn’t. At all. It was one of the worst weeks we have ever had. You know, tiredness wise. I wondered how we did it for 18 months. The no sleep thing. But you do – you do because you have to. What alternative do you have? Sulk and tell people your not playing? Coffee will always be there for you through thick and thin.

At around eighteen months Billy started to sleep heaps better. Not all night. None of that carry on. Most of the night though. I wouldn’t see him between the hours of 8pm and 6am. Peter had a little moment with him at about midnight armed with a bottle and some reassurance. We had settled in to a lovely routine of actually knowing that each night would mean decent sleep. It was genuinely a whole new world and I felt I could take on Mike Tyson in a ring. Full of energy and a bit smug about my newly reclaimed sleep.

Then came the sleepless week from hell. I still don’t know what it was but it has pretty much passed thankfully. He would go to sleep at 8pm and wake thirty minutes later screaming for Mama. I have never heard screams like this before. Terrified screams that made me run up the stairs in a panic. Instant roaring crying, fretting and literally shaking standing in the cot. Maybe he was having issues with turning two. Maybe it is the two massive teeth that seem to be on their way. Maybe it was night terrors or watching too much Fireman Sam too close to bed time? The reality is that nobody knows. A lesson I have quickly learned. Don’t Analyze it. Just do what you have to do to survive.

And we did. He has returned to his usual routine again and sleep has once again entered the building. That sexy little word. Sleep.

He’ll come in to our bed anytime from 5am. For kicks our faces, a little dance or the kind of cuddles that literally make everything OK. Even at 5am when absolutely nothing is OK.