I’ve sometimes wondered if I could write one of those powerful emotional posts I see other bloggers write about their children. Where the love seeps through the page, and the words claw at your heart. Making you remember all the reasons you love being a parent; making you want to eat the chubby thighs of your newborn once again.
Regrettably I don’t think I can do that, evoke that kind of emotion. I don’t normally write about my children too much now, not in anyway that reveals too much about them. When I started this blog I wrote a lot about my son and his ASD diagnosis , how difficult things had been for him, and us. Suddenly it seemed slightly unfair , to be writing about him like that, and so I don’t too much anymore. I write sometimes about my daughter and her strong personality and love of pink. I write a lot about parenting , how difficult it is. How hard it’s been on my mental health , my identity, my time , my finances. This is all true.
Some people think this is unfair. What will my children think when they read this back in years to come ? I don’t think they will , in all honesty. Their whole lives will be online by that stage , their old ma’s blog from back in the day is unlikely to get a look in. And if they do, well I don’t think it will be the worst thing in the world, for them to know I’m human. For them to know I always tried really hard to do my best by them.
This weekend , my daughter will be four. Four! And already the days of mid-morning naps with her sleeping on my chest seem an age ago. That unmistakable warmth. The smell. The sheer irreproducible cosiness of it. Middle of the night feeds, babygrows, learning to feed herself, tiny teeth, vaccinations, the first time she walked. So many days where the highlight was a buggy-walk to Lidl for something non-essential and an episode (or three) of The Good Wife, as she cried her way through the afternoons. She cried a lot, in those days. Maybe she didn’t like The Good Wife.
But I have forgotten so much already. And now she will be four. Who is she, now? I write it down so I remember. So I know.
She is a ball of exuberant energy and noise.
She shouts. She sings. She makes me laugh. She loves her brother.
She wakes up with a smile everyday.
She refers to tops with long sleeves as down sleeves, and tops with short sleeves as up sleeves.
She sings “If you’re happy and you know it” at the top of her voice in the car on a grey Tuesday morning on the commute into Creche.
She hugs me in the morning like she hasn’t seen me for days, even though she climbed into bed with me at three in the morning.
She loves it when we’re all together ‘like a FAMALY.’
She always wants to go out.
She never says something once, if she can say it five times.
She is full of life, full of herself. She is fully four.
Do you think because I moan about parenting that I don’t love my children?