Sometimes {moments from motherhood}

Sometimes, motherhood is the slow burning sensation of being trapped.
It's watching as your husband leaves the house for work, a mix of envy and wonder and resentment. It ripples through your body, slowly gaining momentum, swelling like a sea at high tide. Your mind floods with the words you need to get out, the thoughts you need gone, the feelings you need someone to hear. It's realising those words can suddenly no longer be contained, and watching as they crash onto the shore of the space between you, pounding over and over.

Sometimes, motherhood is the tears that sting your eyes from a small act of kindness.
It's your son noticing that today Mummy is more shouty than usual. He asks if he can give you something and brings you a piece of paper that says 'I love you', with wonky flowers which he declares aren't good because 'I can't draw flowers very well'. It's the love that threatens to burst out of your chest and crush him with it's weight.

Sometimes, motherhood is the repetitive sound of your baby calling MAMAMAMA .
It's her small, fleshy body desperately trying to climb you, saying your name over and over. This is her way of asking for more TV. Pleeaeeease Mama, more. But at the same time you're balancing hot tea and with a quiet resignation, because you saw it coming before it ever happened, you watch as her scrabbling sends the burning amber liquid into your lap. Tears fill your eyes as you silently walk away and strip down and tend to your pink tinged thighs. It's wanting to tell a grown up but knowing there are no grown ups there to tell. You are the grown up and you're not sure how that happened.

Sometimes, motherhood is a sudden swelling in your chest.
It's a look at your jam smeared child with yogurt on her forehead, laughing uncontrollably at your son. He is using oranges as a pair of boobs, then a pair of eyes, and then he grabs a banana and makes a smiley mouth. The laughter ricochets off the four walls you felt so trapped in earlier. It's being swept up by the giggles and joining them, watching the clouds part and a little light streams through.

Sometimes, motherhood is clock watching.
It is the dark, quiet depths of 5am being pierced by the first babbles of baby chatter whilst you inwardly plead with some uknown entity for a little longer in the warm sheets. It's the head banging frustration of 11am when the nap has been too short or the 5pm 'what the hell should I make for dinner' conundrum, again. It's often the 6.30pm start of a long outward breath of anticipation, as the 7pm bedtime is so. very. close.

Sometimes, motherhood is the desperation of an afternoon bath.
It's stripping off and jumping in, a quiet longing in your body for the hot water and lavender. It's watching your round, soft fleshed baby sit on your equally soft fleshed belly in the bath as you wash away the jam (her) and tears (you) that the day wrought. It's a cleansing of the hours gone, and fuel for the hours remaining.

Sometimes, motherhood is creeping in to the quiet, stillness of your sleeping babies bedroom.
It's the longed for closing of the day. It's the quiet snuffles of a baby sleeping with her bum in the air, and the deep old man snores of your six year old. It sounds like the most beautiful music you have ever heard. They smell like sweat and sleep and you stroke their warm littles bodies whilst breathing a sigh of relief. It's hoping you will always remember the calm contentedness you feel in those moments.

Sometimes, motherhood is making it through the day as best you can and still loving them so preposterously at the end of it. It is overwhelming in it's intensity. It is joy and pain and banality and calm repetition. Sometimes, it is all those things at once.

Six {Moments from Motherhood}

This week, our baby boy turned Six.

Every year on or around his birthday, I take some photographs. It's nice to have something taken at the exact same time every year to look back on, seeing the big and little changes in him. At the moment though, he is having a very hard time with me taking his photo. And quite honestly, this boundary is one I struggle with. I mean, duh, right? Taking photographs in general is so soothing for me, it's how i step back and process. And my children and my practicing of this art are inextricably intertwined. It's something I'll need to think about more as they grow. 

This year my first attempt at taking a few photos did not go well. I suggested going out in the garden after school, and just quickly having a few portraits. Quick and painless and done in 5. Good plan right? WRONG. I mean firstly, I should have realised my mistake when I suggested after school. Nothing good happens straight after school. EVER. It is typically the time of tiredness and surly behaviour and retreat. Secondly, I very, very rarely suggest taking photos as the sole purpose of anything. I had clearly lost my mind that day. We went to the garden, and he got mad at me and I got mad at him and it was a disaster. After roughly 3 minutes, we gave up.

The next day, we decided to head to the beach for sunset. No mention of photos, just him in his favourite place, hanging out. I packed my camera and knew that if I kept my distance and let him just be, I could probably get a few shots. I had forgotten how immersed in this place he becomes, how much he just wants to explore and run and be free. He didn't even notice my camera. He showed me rock pools and quick sand and bubbling water and waves. They are him being him. Him being Six.

..........................

I've been having feeeeeelings about Six for the past month or two. It started bubbling up when I would get the usual, casual question of 'How old are your kids?'. I would reply 'Well Sachin is 5, but almost 6, like a few weeks away you know, so really yeah, you know, almost Six I guess? Did I say that already?' Generally coming off as a crazy person.

I can't quite put my finger on it, what the feelings involved actually are. Or maybe there are just too many to narrow it down. There's no sadness, no feelings of loss of baby; he hasn't been that for a long time, and obviously he will always be our baby. But there is a change. A shifting that feels considerable and profound. We're leaving the '5 and under' category and hand in hand we're walking out of those first five years where so much happened, onto the next. 

In those five years I started to navigate this all new terrain called Motherhood, with maternity leave, then returning to work and then staying at home and then working from home. No wonder I was tired, I'm exhausted just writing it down. I travelled the ups and downs, the 'fuck this is hard' times and the 'wow this more beautiful than I imagined life could be' times. Quite honestly, the changes in me are probably too deep and subtle and far-reaching to list. I have learnt more about myself than at any other time in my life so far. I know, I know, how cliched can you get right? But seriously, becoming a round the clock provider for a tiny, dependent human will teach you stuff. Like how it is physically (but not emotionally) possible to survive on 2 hours sleep, or how after asking your kid to put some clothes on for the 5,768th time today your patience well isn't quite as deep as you assumed it would be. How strong and capable and fragile and vulnerable I can be, sometimes all at once. I learnt how central my career is to my sense of self, and what a loss of independence I could feel no longer earning my own money. I realised how screwed up the whole system is and how woman are geared to lose within it. Maybe I'll write about that stuff some time, clearly I have have thoughts. 

But back to this shared journey. My husband and I were thrown head first into getting to know each other as parents and this little baby we had made. We travelled together, always looking forward, holding each other through the harder times and immersing ourselves in those incredible highs. Becoming a three, and then later a four - building our family and making it strong and secure. Those five years are when Sachin grew and learned and evolved so much in such a short space of time, unrecognisably changing from a tiny helpless newborn to a boy who is articulate, sensitive, intelligent and kind.

So here we are at Six. The next age bracket. There is still new terrain of course. New challenges and emotions and subjects to tackle. Rather than teaching him to walk and talk or not eat sand, we're having discussions about friendship or the universe, or death and Harry Potter. There is so much pleasure in exploring these things with him, seeing his joy at discovering something he never knew before, the wonder of reading for pleasure or learning about galaxies far, far away. Tonight he read his school book about archaeology to me, telling me about the first humans 600,000 years ago, and asking me if I was impressed with his knowledge (pronounced know-ledge). I was baby, I always am. There is also the odd gut wrenching pain, when the realisations that come with growing up hit him, and hit me fresh as I see them through his eyes, and feel them with a sense of pain that wasn't there before kids. Like how death is inevitable. I know we'll have more of those as the years go on, but I guess all we can do is explore it together and talk and talk and talk some more. And be here. A steady supply of homemade cake will go far too, I hope.

My husband and I have been talking about this next stage a little bit, about these new subjects, the physical changes that will happen to our little boy over the coming years together. How we'll try to teach S about the world and his body and relationships and life, man. The wondrous and dizzying and complicated stuff. The nitty gritty. It's all gonna be there.

This journey we've been on together so far has taken us to many amazing places. It's only going to get better. Here's to Six, and the new places we'll go.

On dying {Moments from Motherhood}

A small, shaky voice comes from the top of the stairs. It's 8.19pm and I put him to bed 40 minutes ago. "I'm sorry Mummy because I know it's bedtime but I have a bad thought in my head and it won't go away and I can't sleep with it there". I tell him to come down and he crawls into my lap. I ask him what the bad thought is and he tells me that he is scared of growing up because he doesn't want to die.

Lest you think he's all deep thoughts and philosophising on life, his favourite word is currently poo, and he is obsessed with twerking. So, you know. This Is Five. However the dying and death conversation is one we have from time to time, it just hasn't happened for a while. Hearing the words death and dying come from my five year old baby sting me like salt water in cut. I squeeze him closer, not sure what I should say. These big things always seem to come out of the blue, knocking me momentarily. The usual "Don't worry, you don't need to think about it" tactic doesn't work, he knows that the day will come and he just doesn't know how to stop it. I can feel his heart thumping through his bony chest, he is struggling to suppress tears. He tells me that he imagined heaven falling out of the sky and dead people falling down on him. I'm surprised by the depth of the imagination, and heart broken he came up with the image. We aren't religious but have had a few conversations about various beliefs in previous discussions. I remind him that heaven is only there if you believe in it, and some people don't, they believe other things. And he wants to know what so I remind him about reincarnation. Straight away I regret it. His tears start to flow and he becomes distraught at the thought of leaving his body behind, at not having himself. He starts to describe what's he's picturing; his body dead, and through sobs tells me how his eyes will be closed and he won't be able to open them. I can feel him spiralling and feel desperately like I need to calm him and make it better.

To balance a five year old who is quite advanced in language and understanding, yet is still only five, is something I struggle with. It's a part of motherhood I didn't prepare for. He has always been a talker, from teeny tiny he spoke quickly and fluently. He likes to name - feelings and places and objects. The world and it's contents are just waiting to be discovered and labelled. And so we do talk a lot. I feel so lucky that he can express what he's experiencing - obviously in many ways it makes parenting easier, it takes away some of the guess work. But at other times, like now, I wish he didn't know about these things, that these words didn't come so easy to him. That his understanding wasn't quite so robust. Asking me questions where the answer is definitive and set and I can't change it or make it go away. Death is not a problem I can solve for him, for anyone.

I default to my fail safe parenting tool, distraction. I persuade him that we will make a cosy den in bed and I will sing ten green bottles to him. We will cuddle and sing until his mind is gently lulled out of the thoughts which make him cry. Distract distract distract. I carry him back up the stairs.

We lie in bed together and he tells me that he doesn't think it will work, that he is still worried. We make a den and I snuggle into him. By nature he is not much for physical affection. As he has always been a talker, he has always been happier next to me, not on me. Holding hands softly instead of being carried. He is not one for kisses, he prefers to blow them. But now he pulls my arms around him and squeezes me so tightly that it takes me by surprise and I realise how shaken he is. He tells me "I'm holding on and won't let go". I sing ten green bottles softly in his ear. When I am finished, he asks for another song. I sing Do Re Me, the song we would sing to him every night until he was 3. When I'm finished I ask him what his favourite part of the day was. This is our daily ritual - favourite part of the day, and we've already done it but I think that maybe if I can change the tape playing in his head, he'll be ok. So much of parenting is distraction, right? Distract the baby with this toy so she relinquishes the fork she's about to stab her eye with. Distract the five year old with stories and songs so the bad thoughts subside. Distract distract distract. We talk about seeing friends and playing at the park and painting. He is still holding me tight. I tell him that I like the cuddles. He tells me that he loves cuddles and we talk about how they make us feel better when we are sad, or even better when we are happy. I'm transported for a moment to being little enough to crawl into my Mum's lap and how the comfort of her physical presence, her body enveloping me, was so reassuring. I hope so much that I am that for him. He asks me to sleep with him and I tell him that I won't fit because he likes to sleep in a star shape. He finds this information hilarious - something he didn't know about himself. I tell him he sleep kicks me and talks sometimes too, and the giggles come on strong. Distract distract distract.

The gentle cuddles and songs and talk seemed to have worked, he tells me I can go and get ready for bed, that he is ok now. I tuck him in and kiss his forehead. He tells me he loves me.

I walk downstairs feeling a little dazed, and burst into tears. I was fine when I was with him but the heartbreaking words and his sobs come back to me and I all I want is my husband who is still at work. I want to talk about it with the one person who knows him as well as I do; who is as besotted with this sensitive soul as I am. I want him to tell me that I did the right thing and handled it in the right way.

Feeling our way around this stuff is hard. Our culture is not one that deals with death well, if at all. My Mum is Catholic and I was raised with a heaven. For me it was an immense comfort as a child, when my Nan died she became Nanny in Heaven. Gone from here to somewhere else, not just gone. It is still how I think of her, even though any belief in God or Heaven are long over for me. A few years ago when my maternal Grandmother died I bought a book for my Mum ' The Tibetan art of Living and Dying'. I need to read it again, but I remember how it detailed death being a big art of the cultural conversation from birth. I find myself wanting a book for Sachin, something that will help him when he feels like this. It's part of my coping strategy for many situations, to read.  At the same time I also don't want to talk about it more than is necessary. I can only be led by him, I suppose, and always be there to hold him and sometimes talk open and honestly. Sometimes it just doesn't feel like enough.

We're at an interesting time in his childhood. Traits that have been around since babydom are showing themselves as a part of who he is, not just phases. His sensitivity in many areas are coming to the fore and I hope we handle it right for him so that it becomes an asset and not a part of himself he struggles with. Sifting out the things that need more attention and things that we can slowly pull him away from is tough. In the meantime, I'll read books and talk to other parents and always be here for den building and singing whenever he needs it. Let's hope that's enough.

I'd love to know how other parents have handled to death conversation - and whether you have different cultural conversations going on...


Image by Kanae Sato

On growing up {Moments from Motherhood}

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.