It’s time for me to admit; I think I might be one of those overly sentimental mums. I can try and fight it, deny it, pretend I’m well ‘ard and tough, but frankly, it’s just not true.
I have the hugest of crushes on the amazing mum bloggers out there, who have nailed the art of calling out the really bloody exhausting and nerve-jangling aspects of parenthood and being honest and funny at the same time. My particular faves are Brummy Mummy of 2 and Hurrah for Gin, who seem to be able to pinpoint and say not only what we are all thinking and experiencing, but do it hilariously and touchingly but never cheesily. And this is where I often think ‘Oh I can’t possibly write this or that down, what if everyone thinks ‘Blyurrrgh! Pass the bucket! This one’s far too sensitive for her own good.’
But then again, we are all different, and that’s just fine. I read a comment on a post recently where a mum said something like ‘Now I was never a mushy mum . . .’ and I thought ‘Oh but that’s me.’ I am the one crying my eyes out along the street after a particularly tearful nursery drop-off. Sometimes I am so overwhelmed with love for my boy I just start crying. And yes this has happened out in public, when obviously he was being insanely cute and not going mental because he doesn’t LIKE the sun. But still. Sometimes it makes me feel just a bit silly. Because we all love our kids to pieces, and it’s not the British way to be too sentimental about these things, what what.
I think there’s a very good reason for it though, and it’s this. I feel, every single day, very lucky. Oh I’m welling up just writing that down. Argh! I feel lucky to be married to my husband when in my early twenties I never thought I would ever meet anyone like him, let alone marry him and have a beautiful son together. Yes he can drive me crazy, because he literally cannot find ANYTHING and cannot see things even when they are RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. I spend my life telling him where things are (‘It’s right in front of you, see?’), but that’s no big deal.
And when it comes to our little boy, every day I feel lucky that he is here. I have never taken for granted or just assumed I could have children. But he is here and all the things that add up to him are right. From his big curly hair to his ten small toes, everything that makes him him is a part of me and I feel this overwhelming, sometimes crushing weight of love for him that is impossible to articulate. So maybe that’s why I cry. I have also read far too many horror novels, and seen too many terrible stories in the news, to not panic every time he runs that little bit too fast away from me or I lose sight of him for a moment in the park. We all do that.
He turned three nearly three weeks ago and I’ve been wanting to write it all down but so far I haven’t, and I don’t know why. Time is going so quickly, and every now and again I catch a glimpse of him and he looks so grown up, and I just want time to stop. I was quite proud of myself this year because I only cried once when wrapping his presents, instead of the sob fest of the previous two years in preparation for his big day. Maybe I am toughening up!
Oh, who am I kidding? He flung his arms around me the other day and said ‘Mummy I love you so much!’ before rushing off to tend to Thomas, Gordon and friends, leaving me with tears rolling down my cheeks whilst thinking ‘I won’t cry I won’t cry . . . oh go on then. Just a little bit.’