I have decided to write a bit about my experiences of motherhood, regularly. It's a little conflicting for me in all honesty. Having two children is consuming. It is my all day, err' day. And whilst part of me is desperate for that to not be the only thing, for right now, it's my wonderful, tiring, whirlwind majority. It won't be forever (repeat loudly like a crazy person) and so one day maybe I'll enjoy reading back about these times? Maybe others on this crazy, often suspect smelling journey want to empathise and yell " Me too!" ? I also want to write more and I can really only write what I know so here we are. Moments from Motherhood. We'll see how it goes.
Today has been one of those days where I look down at the small, perfectly formed human we made, and I feel it heavily. One day she will be grown. This may sound odd, but it's so easy to be in the now with kids. To feel that the tiny fist pulling on my hair, the 2am cries in the dark, the giggles I can illicit from tickling just the right spot under her chin, will always be my life. They're my every day moments that go around and around, over and over. There, evolving, but ever present. Raising these children is all consuming at times, sometimes in the most amazing way, sometimes the hardest. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" I announced to my husband in a sufficiently hammy fashion. I often wonder if we'll look back on this very specific time and think of it as the happiest.
Then sometimes, there are these moments. When I look at them and I am transported to a future version of us. It happens a lot with Sach, but today was the first time with Arla. I could see her bigger, having her own thoughts and personality and a life that doesn't involve lying on our furry rug, feet in hands, laughing maniacally at the maraca I'm shaking. At 7 months her legs have rolls for days. And days. It is THE BEST. They are like two portable stress balls - give the soft squishy flesh a squeeze and everything is all right in the world. At times the world becomes so small when we are together, we are all that exists and everything is good. Today's moment though took me out of that with such a bittersweet sucker punch.
Sach and I were talking. He is afraid of growing up. He has been for a while. His understanding is quite remarkable - to him getting older equals dying and so together we are trying to get our heads around it. I mean, we always will be right? We never will? We have long, meaningful conversations about it; he often gets tearful. He lives in his head and I can see myself so clearly in that trait of his that it stings a little. he is an old soul. I want to scoop him up and stroke his hair (which he would hate by the way. HATE!). I tell him all the wonderful things about being a grown up, "You can explore the world! And find a someone like Daddy and I have! And go to bed as late as you want!" He's not buying it. He insists he never wants to leave home, he doesn't want to leave us. I tell him that's ok, he will never have to. That no matter his age, he will always be my baby. I say these things knowing that the time will come, as it should, when he will be ready to fly the coop. For now though I swim in his tiny voice as he tells me in his own way that he is happy and safe and feels so loved here that he can't imagine anything else. Locked away for those teen years where he'll barely mumble at us.
We were talking about how long he would need glasses and he said "Even when I'm 70?". It was another one of those bittersweet sucker punches and I was filled with sadness for a second. The reality is, I probably won't be here then. That there will be a whole part of his life that I will never see. *pause. deep breathe Laura* The usual line is "Even when I'm 100?!" and I have this vivid daydream I come back to often. Him, an old man sitting in a chair at the end of his life. I can see his hands wrinkled and dry. The sadness I feel at knowing I won't be there for him then; that I won't be there to hold his hand. It's like a rock in the pit of my stomach, so raw and heavy and real. Maybe I feel it so clearly now because I won't be alive to feel it then? Luckily, these moments are fleeting. And I'm trying to add to this daydream. I try to imagine how full his life will be, and remember that just because I am not there, that he will not be alone. Of course he won't be alone. He will have fallen in love and made many friends and might have made babies and have a family all of his own. He will have a sister and there is a comfort in this that I didn't realise until yesterday. We have given them each other to make this journey with.
Maybe the reason that little kids are so consuming is so that the time to pause and consider all these big, deep life things are limited? Because how the hell would we function otherwise? For now it's back to immersing oneself in the every day chaos, and escaping when possible and necessary.