Oscar started crawling last week. It was a big deal. Ever since he figured out he had legs he's been desperate to get on the move, and more particularly get on his feet. He's been threatening to start crawling for weeks and now, suddenly, he can. But milestones are funny things. Hailed as golden moments of development by the reams of literature you read and advice you listen to, when they actually happen they can be strangely anticlimactic.
We got given this little pack of 'milestone cards' when Oscar was born with a pretty card for each big leap - first smile, first roll, first tooth... - and a space to write the date. They're really rather lovely. But I've hardly filled in any. There's something similar in the back of his red book, your personal NHS child health record, which in my case also lies blank.
Every time I think of it I feel a rush of guilt. Shouldn't I - the women who feels compelled to document so many small and otherwise meaningless moments in her life - be recording the day these precious memories took place? Won't my son want to know one day? Won't I want to remember?
I've been trying to write a post about Oscar starting to crawl for the last ten days, the cogs of my brain jogged every time I watch him scamper with alarming speed across the kitchen floor straight towards the open patio door. But every time I sit down to write my fingers simply hover dumb above the keyboard.
Then last night while lying in bed trying to quit my whirring, aching brain and actually go to sleep I finally figured it out, and immediately felt better. Because the truth is that the really special memories aren't always the day they finally tick off a new skill. They're often the days my son doesn't quite manage it, or even the days he doesn't do anything particularly noteworthy at all.
Because of course as in our own adult lives, special moments with your baby aren't always - or even often - the noteworthy ones. This morning I watched my partner help my son push a trolley across the room and twice felt compelled to take a video, even though nothing was new or milestone-worthy.
I couldn't write about Oscar starting to crawl because actually that final piece of the puzzle wasn't the one that moved me. There certainly have been milestones that meant something, that first smile stealing the most perfect glory, and perhaps there will be again. But in the meantime I've given myself permission to stop worrying that I need to write a personal essay every time Oscar ticks another box on the government mandated development chart.
Instead, I plan to revel in the glorious, magical and completely unique experience of Oscar's childhood that only we can share.
What a relief.