He still needs me. Last night he awoke at midnight, upset and confused. A beam of light spilled into his room as I opened the door and he saw me through the gloom, gulped back a sob, reached for me over the side of his crib.

Oh! Oh, mommy. Oh my, there you are. I woke up and I didn’t know where you were and I was mad and then I cried and then I got madder and now I’m all backwards and inside out. Can I have milk truck? Can I have warm and soft and safe, please please right now?

But times have changed. The milk truck is empty. He can climb on and toot the horn, but there's nothing to deliver. And there I was, a soothing has-been, all thumbs (‘Welcome to my world,’ says Daddy. ‘No sure-fire fix-alls here!’).

So I climbed with him into bed and clutched him to me until he gave up. His body went heavy and still, his wet face and breath warm on my neck. And he slept. I was tempted to stay that way, all night. So addictive, so rare in these squirmy times.

With every step forward, our little sponge grows up and away from us. I see him across a room standing at a binful of toys, picking out his favourites. And I feel a rush of simultaneous pride and panic. He has baths all by himself, turns the pages of a book, goes limp to escape our arms and squiggle back to the floor.

Go, kiddo!  I think. But then.. No, stop right there! Don’t ever change! Stay little, so you’ll still want to sleep on me.