Plus ça change...

Cold and raining. The latter is good for the garden. The former is good for... ? Fill in the blank if you can. I can't.

Seven years ago, give or take a few hours, I gave birth to my son, AJ. He arrived amid chaos. The House on the Rock was still only half-restored. There was no hot water in the kitchen, no water at all in the bathroom. The entire upper third of the house was still unplastered, and unelectrified - unexplored you might even say. Our very own heart of darkness. And the place had not much in the way of heating either. 

In the weeks and months that followed through the chill of the Carmine winter, AJ slept with us on a mattress on the floor. 

As much as tiny babies do, that is. 

Which isn't much.

Of that time I remember mostly the cold at night. I remember sitting up in bed in the wee small hours, propped against a freezing external wall, with his little body at the breast or in my lap, cocooned in a blanket. I remember marvelling at M's ability to snooze on through vigorous smacking of infantile lips and vigorous attempts at burping, which I now recall never, ever succeeded. Oh, and the cholic.

I remember feeling that I was the only person alive that was awake at that moment. In the darkness of 3am, not a light lit. Not a waking soul to share the responsibility of this little life with. I remember the only thing that kept me going through the sleep deprivation all ordinary parents share was the fact of this little boy. Just the fact of him.

In the wee small hours of last Sunday night in bed, I'm cold, disastrously tired and awake. I'm propped against a freezing external wall. I've got pins and needles but I'm riveted to the spot by the warm weight of a not-so-small body asleep upright on my lap. I'm riveted by the desire not to wake my asthmatic son into yet another fit of uncontrollable coughing. I'm marvelling through gritted teeth- so-to-speak - at M's ability to snooze on through lights off and on, the too-frequent application of spray medications, the making of cups of tea to keep me awake and drinking chocolate to make him sleep. The inevitable fits of uncontrollable coughing that make me feel I should be heading down The Hill towards Pronto Soccorso. 

I'm feeling that I'm the only person awake in the inky blackness of this night. Not a waking soul to share the responsibility of this not-so-little life with. And I know that the only thing that keeps me doing this is the fact of this growing child. Just the fact of him. 

Happy birthday, AJ. Truly, an indisputable fact of my life.