Tonight, for the first night in almost eighteen months I won't have to tiptoe into bed. I won't have to tense at the rustle of the duvet, or startle when the lid of my face cream goes pop, and I won't have to whisper goodnight to my husband and then scowl at him when his whispered reply is too loud.
I won't nestle down in the soft cool of the bed and gaze over at the little face that's lying less an arm's reach from mine and I won't drift off into sleep marvelling at the perfection of his sleeping form. I won't close my eyes and listen to his soft breathing and I won't wake at his first grumbles and groans.
My last sight of the day won't be his scrunched up bottom and my first sight of the day won't be his dazed and sleepy face.
Because tonight, for the first night in his life, John will sleep in his own room.
And even though there's part of me that's thrilled to have finally finished the room that we've been slaving over for so long, and even though I know that the time is right, my boy is ready, and my husband is more than ready, I still wish that I could keep him beside me a little while longer, because there is no better sight to fall asleep to than that of a round little bottom in the air, and there is no better sight to wake to than that of a sleepy face smiling at you over the side of a cot.