My eldest boy, nearly five years old, taps on the window to get my attention. I’m hanging up the washing outside, trying to have a moment of peace in a day otherwise dominated by childcare. He waves at me. I wave back and resume my task. He knocks and waves again, so I wave back. Then I realise he’s trying to open the window. I wince, anticipating that he might accidentally knock over the pottery on the windowsill. I grit my teeth with frustration, tap pause on the podcast playing on my phone, and hurry over to warn him to mind the vase. He recoils from my annoyed face. My heart softens. ‘What do you want?’ He just came to see me and say that he loves me. We tell each other this countless times a day.
Every evening, I take an hour or so away from the kids to make dinner. My husband knows to keep the children contained so that I can have some undisturbed time - to complete tasks without interruption, to consume some media, to listen and reply to voice notes from friends. To do whatever the hell I want whilst preparing food. It’s a very enjoyable slither of my day. However, my eldest rarely gets through the hour without sneaking out to see me. Sometimes he’ll appear in the kitchen and say, “I lied to Dad that I needed the loo, but I just wanted to come and give you a hug”.
How precious to be so adored. Of course, I know it won’t last. It’s just a moment in time, a stage of his wondrous development, where I am his world. I drop to my knees, open my arms wide and pull him close, kissing his head. I know that in a few years, I’ll be the one hoping for a hug and these embraces will become rarer and rarer.
Raising children is intense. You experience time passing in a different way. I’m often spooling forward and back to make sense of the moment. Only a few years ago this child was a baby. Now he’s on the cusp of starting school. I sobbed on his last day of nursery a week ago, hugging the amazing women who cared for him. It marked the end of the first chapter of his life. The first goodbye. There is grief here.
I’ve just finished reading Matrescence by Lucy Jones. She writes about all this beautifully, including how the job of parenting is to make it possible for our children to leave us. She says:
My children are the main actors, and I am the audience. I will always be in thrall to them, but they won’t always be in thrall to me… This intimacy has a shelf life. Already, it hurts. I feel a premonition as I watch them grow before my eyes. This is life, and it is hard, and it is right.
Children reflect our own ageing. Whilst parenthood ages you, there is something kind of sexy about being the mother of young children. Babies and toddlers are cute and attract attention. Whereas being the mother of a school child feels distinctly middle-aged. I remember the parents of my school friends. I thought they were old. I’m joining their ranks now and will be perceived the same way (however young and vibrant I still feel).
It’s all so fleeting, isn’t it? My youngest has just turned two and is at ‘peak cute’. He says funny things and wants constant ‘huggys’. He’s a bundle of pure love. I am addicted to caressing his soft cheeks and pudgy legs. So soft. The softest. I think of old, weathered skin and marvel anew at the softness of his. Nuzzling into him is sensory bliss.
The intensity of my children’s need for me can be suffocating. Sometimes I look forward to the day when they won’t need me all the time and I’ll be free of their demands. But when that time comes, I’ll feel bereft. I’ll long to be needed again. Loved to the point of madness.