5.26 am (or thereabouts)
Heavy footsteps. Down the hall, down the stairs, right to my bedside (he's inherited the elephant like tread of his father and sister)
Mama? Mama? You wake?
(wee interlude. heavy footsteps back to beside the bed)
He wriggles in.
Moves into the spooning position for a "pwoper" cuddle.
Shuts his eyes briefly. Opens them again.
And the questions begin:
Where does the wind come from?
Why do volcaneys send out ash clouds?
Can ash clouds get in the house and kill you?
Why is a tree called a tree?
How will I know when I'm big?
How many days until Christmas?
If we get a dog and it eats the cats what will we do?
Why does the rain decide to fall?
Do dragons set fire to themselves?
Why is Christmas called Christmas?
What's the best way to fall down a mountain?
How many sleeps til Christmas?
Why are they called nostrils?
I know how the flower made ET die. Do you?
Do you know what baby Jesus did?
How do bricks stick?
What is 55?
How do waves work?
What does just mean mummy? I just don't get it.
So when is Christmas?
I'm not at my best at 5.30am but these are our best conversations. In the warm fug of a snuggly doona, as sleep slowly loosens its grip, we chat. About anything he wants, wherever his questions take us.
For an hour he has me all to himself while the house slumbers on.
The responsibility, the privilege, the sheer wonder of parenting does not escape me.