Category Archives: Motherhood

Normal people. 

13 Saturday Jun 2015

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I’ve just read back over my last two blogs and I’ve noticed a theme arising; normal people. I’ve mentioned them a few times in a number of blogs and I’ve started to realise that I’m jealous. Or deluded. One of the two. Let me give you some examples:

I’m currently laying on my bed, having just got out of the bath. I am surrounded by piles of clothes that need ironing (see picture), and tonight is the only night I have available to do it.  I really cannot be bothered. Last week I got halfway through a massive pile and decided that actually I couldn’t be bothered to do it and who needs this many clothes anyway? So I put what was left into 2 bin bags and I took it all to the recycle point outside a local supermarket! I didn’t even look through it to see what I was throwing away! I didn’t care! Are these the actions of a normal person?  Even worse I’m considering doing the same tonight!!

 One reason I can’t be bothered to do the ironing, is that earlier today (in my unerring idiocy) I decided to finally take some time to clear out the kids room. Big mistake. I have got as far as creating a huge mess that started off as piles of things to keep, things to put away, and things to give away, and has ended up just becoming a mixture of random stuff that I can’t decide what to do with. Or I did decide but the piles have merged into one. I’ve just been toying with the idea to get the bin bags out and chuck it all. That will sort it!! However I can’t actually summon up the energy to even do that and now I have a pile of ironing and  whole room of crap sitting here waiting for me to do something! 

As I say I’ve just got out of the bath. Prior to getting in the bath I looked on the mirror and realised that it was domething I should probably have done much earlier on in the day; like before I set foot out of the house! Perhaps that way I might have noticed that I had forgotten to brush my hair since washing it last night, perhaps I’d even have noticed the bit of sellotape that was stuck firmly to my chin, I’ve no idea how long I have been walking around like that. I know I have a propensity to the dishevelled look but blimey, I’ve excelled even myself! I’ve even been shopping like this. 

Speaking of shopping, I joined the Cycle2work scheme at work this week, giving me £500 to spend on a nice shiny new bike. So, naive as I am, I thought I’d pop to Halfords to pick a pick, maybe a few shiny accessories, to make me look the part. Who knew that buying a bike could be so bloody difficult? So many decisions, about things I know nothing about. Do I want hydraulic brakes or cable ones? Mountain bike or road bike; actually perhaps a hybrid would suit me better? 20 inch frame or 18? Cross bar or no crossbar? Suspension or not? The questions came out of the salesmans mouth like he thought I might be a person who would know the answers to these questions, or at the very least understand what on earth he was saying! Seriously, had he not noticed my hair?! I spent half an hour doing both of our heads in before politely excusing myself and saying I would do more research online prior my return tomorrow with a decision!! Yeah right! Decision? That’s not going to happen. 

Today the kids are at their Dads. I am always saying how lovely it would be to have time alone and yet the minute I drove away from dropping them off, I came over feeling all desolate. Like I am alone.  Turns out I actually quite like having the little sproglets around. They make me feel complete, no matter how badly behaved and demanding they can be. The thing is I know that within 5 minutes of them returning tomorrow, I will be fed up of the bickering and moaning and wonder what it was I missed exactly whilst they were away! 

So, I ask you is it any wonder i appear to be obsessed with being normal? My life would surely be so much easier. No one else I know seems to struggle so much with the basics of being a grown up as I do! Surely at the ripe old age of 36 I should have mastered the art of brushing my hair and checking the mirror before I leave the house? I should be able to pick out a bike, or clear out a room? Shouldn’t I? 

Send help!!!

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Moving forward, looking back. 

20 Monday Apr 2015

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I’ve never thought about it before, and have probably been guilty of it many many times; but how come everyone seems to feel that they can judge on my life. Or more to the point, my life decisions, marriage, separation and/or divorce. I don’t mean I expect people to not comment or ask about it or acknowledge it. That’s normal, it’s what friends do. They care. They check that you are ok. They offer support. 

The thing is some people go past that. They offer, no they give, you their view on your own life and then try to tell you how to live it. The thing is it’s just that, their view, their opinion, their experience. Not mine. My experience is completely different to anyone else’s, and thank goodness it is too, especially after hearing some of the divorce stories I’ve heard this week. 

I know that people are trying to be nice, they care, but my experience is completely unique to me. It’s not even the same as P’s experience of our divorce. We are all different and we experience things differently. 

The thing that appears to have shocked people most and that they have strong opinions about, is that P and I have moved on fairly quickly. Within weeks we have both begun testing the path of dating again. People assume that we were both having affairs, or tell us that it’s too soon; we need to let the dust settle. Maybe they are right, heaven knows I’ve been wrong many many times in my life, as anyone who reads this blog will know, but maybe P and I are right. Maybe the decision to separate was long overdue and has just drawn a formal line in the sand of our relationship. What if we both end up with the partners of our dreams? Should we turn down the opportunity of happiness to please people who don’t have to live our lives? 

We think not. It is difficult. It is strange, what people might find even stranger is that P and I have openly discussed this. P knew I was dating before almost anyone else. I knew he was almost from the moment that it started. Turns out that we were right; we are really good friends. We talk more now than we did married and living together. The cynics might say that will change; that things will turn out acrimoniously in the end. Perhaps they will, but at the moment we are going through a transition period and it is working for us. 

That’s not to say that it hasn’t been tough. I will always think of this as one of the toughest periods of my life. I have had doubts and worries and I may (once or twice) have been found snivelling on the bathroom floor sobbing that I can’t cope with being on my own. I’m terrible at decision making when it comes to my personal life.  Things that I used to find easy, such as parenting our boys seem so much tougher knowing I’m where the buck stops. Only, in reality it doesn’t. P will always be there for our 3 boys. Whilst not conventional, we are a family. It may be different, people may think it strange but it is most definitely true, like it or not we are stuck with each other. And we will work it out our way. Probably with a lot of shouting and screaming on my part. So thank you all for your support, and your well meaning words but excuse me if I carry on regardless. 

 

My first, my last, my everything.

23 Monday Feb 2015

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Whilst I love being pregnant in many ways, I have never been very good at being pregnant. I have 3 children and all of my pregnancies have been complicated in some way, each one in a different way, but definitely complicated. This time 5 years ago I was 27 weeks pregnant with my youngest child, my last child. Even as I type that, my stomach churns and my mind does a little spin. You see, whilst I know that Billy Bob is going to be my last baby, there is still a part of me that can never quite believe that. The finality of it. The redundancy of me. The admission that I will never again feel that rush of dread/excitement/anticipation of realising that I could be pregnant. The tiniest flutter of the first movement and the whopping great kick in the ribs that takes your breath away.

When I had Bean, the Middle one, I remember going down to theatre on the way for a section and insisting on stopping and using the bathroom, not because I needed the toilet, but because I wanted those last few moments, alone with my baby, to recognise that this was the last time I would be fully responsible for his every need, to feel his heart inside me and to come to terms with him leaving the protection of my stomach. It was a moment of supreme peace and clarity.

When I had Bill, I didn’t get that. I didn’t have a section and so I didn’t have the warning that he would be leaving. Well, obviously I did, but I suppose the pains of labour aren’t as peace and clarity inducing as the gentle stroll down to theatre, knowing that in 20 mins it would all be over. It’s something I wish I had had the forethought to do. The last time I will ever hold a baby inside of me and I can’t really remember much apart from the pain and concentrating on getting through it.

Then before I knew it he was in my arms and everything we at once perfect and at the same time bittersweet because, I suppose I knew all along that in all likelihood that he was my last. Whilst I felt unable to definitively state I was having no more children, I knew in my heart that it wouldn’t be practical or sensible to have any more. Billy Bob was a surprise baby and childcare was going to cripple us, another child would drown us financially. So, without actually admitting to it, every time I looked at him I knew that this was the last time I’d go through this.

It was my last time to breast feed a baby, it was my last chance to finally master the use of reusable nappies. I would never again choose a pushchair and car seat combo, or go through the saga of picking out an appropriate name that we could both agree on. There would never be another first smile, or crawl, or first steps. It was the last time I’d experience the magic of the first words.

I found myself not wanting to start those firsts…Billy Bob was over 6 months before he started on solids, something both the other two were accomplished at by 4 months. I wasn’t in a rush to get him to give up breastfeeding or to stop getting up in the night. I saw both as opportunities to have more cuddles. Evidence that I was still needed. That my boy still needed me.

Whilst I delighted in every milestone, my heart also broke a little bit at everyone. It’s like a list that I made of everything fantastic that I ever wanted to do and each time I completed one, it was great, but at the back of my mind was the knowledge that soon it would be over. I’d be at the bottom of my list and wouldn’t know what to do next.

I found myself start to worry that soon he would be too big to comfortably be picked up for snuggles, that he wouldn’t think that a Mummy cuddle was the best thing in the world. Things which had never occurred to me with the older two now became matters of great importance. The day he called me into the bathroom to show me that he can touch both ends of the bath if he stretches out his hands and toes, his excitement was phenomenal, my heart broke a little more.

But gradually, I’m coming to notice something and I’m not entirely sure how it started. My first recognition of it was a few months ago when I realised that it was 9am and I hadn’t yet been woken by a child. When my baby boy asked to go to the shop for me to buy bread (he’s 4!!) when we’d run out. When the eldest offered to go and pick his brothers up from holiday club so that I could relax on a rare day off. All small things that are signifying a new era in my life. A whole new realm of “firsts” that I hadn’t imagined existed. That nobody had ever really told me would come. These firsts are every bit as precious to me. The birth of my last child signified an ending in some ways but it has also opened up a chapter that no one seems to talk about. A new life after babies and toddlers, a life where your children stop relying on you and start to rely on themselves and each other. And it’s different, and it’s emotional but it’s every bit as full of dread/excitement and as significant as those other firsts. And I’ve now realised that I’ve come to terms with having no more babies, and I’m looking forward to the coming years with my growing lads without regrets. Well, hopefully not too many.

Next to Godliness.

17 Tuesday Feb 2015

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It’s been a long week. I’ve worked some long hours recently and as a result Paul has been taking on most of the household and childcare duties. The problem with that is that we have glaringly different ideas of acceptable levels of tidiness in the home, and in dress codes for the kids. In my world odd socks are not appropriate attire, (unless it’s 6am and the only other option is no socks at all), in Paul’s world this is not only acceptable but also to be encouraged. Equally, my idea of housework is to actually do housework, his is to hide whatever he can and get the kids to hide the rest.

I’ve got my niece staying with me at the moment, she is two days younger than my eldest and I love her being here. Not only is she company for the eldest, but she is fun and I can pretend I have a daughter without all the hassle of actually having a daughter!! I get the good bits, the cuddles and the girlie chats, without having to 1) give birth, or 2) nag her about the amount of make up that she wears! Anyway, as you can probably guess, life is hectic in my house at the moment!

As the cleaning fairy appears to have given up and left me to my own pathetic devices, I spent a few hours yesterday evening cleaning and tidying up the downstairs, (I mean honestly, no one sees upstairs so why bother?) it actually looked presentable by the time I left home this morning. It would never have passed an inspection by my nana, but hey, if someone (God forbid) visited unexpectedly I could probably pretend I was yet to tidy up and apologise for the mess!

Anyway, I’d mopped and swept the floors, tided up and washed up, put the washing on etc. I went off to work safe in the knowledge that the house looked ok (ish). I received a few missed calls from the eldest during the course of the day and when I rung him back he said he’d sorted out whatever he wanted in the first place. He also asked if he and my niece could go out on the bikes. No problem, says I, be home for tea. It was raining, I told them not to make a mess.

I picked up the younger two and got home around five. I walked into the front room, all was well. It was when I got to the dining room that I started to notice that things weren’t quite as I had left them. The mop and bucket were sitting prominently in the centre of the room, there were a few bits of mud on the floor. The dustpan and brush were on the dining table. Nothing much. A bit annoying but 2 minutes of sorting it out and things would be fine. Then I walked into the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen. It was a sight to behold: first off the bin was open and there were about 50 sheets of kitchen roll covered in some sort of black gunk. There were also the remains of some sort of doughy cooking, which I quickly identified (from the half empty bottle on top of the pile) as burnt pancakes!

I cast my eyes over to the cooker hob. It was covered in smears from where someone (only eldest and niece were home) had obviously made a mess when cooking and had wiped up rather ineptly. The work tops shared the same coating of smeared food. The draining board contained a huge pile of semi clean pots, pans, glasses, and bowls. It was piled up like a game of jenga, ready to topple at any moment! Actually in the sink was a massive over sized sponge, covered in mud and the wall, cupboard door and floor had splashes and slightly muddy puddles. I felt my hackles rising. I’d cleaned this place. It had looked ok. Why did they do this? I was annoyed.

And then I realised something. I was getting annoyed but actually I was looking at this all wrong. I was looking at the mess, what I wasn’t seeing was what is was evidence of. Instead I was seeing it as a bad thing, they had ruined all my hard work, but in reality it was evidence of many things and none of them were bad.

It was evidence they had been cooking, that they had tried to cook something that they had never done before. And they had failed, and continued to try. They had also recognised the mess and had tried to sort it out, because they knew that would make me happy. The smears on the cookers and worktop were evidence that they had attempted to tidy up.

The muddy puddles and splashes were from where they had tried to wash the mud from their bikes, they had tried to make me happy and in the process had probably made more of a mess, but the intention was good. And I was proud of them. They had also given me evidence that they had been out of the house, having fun and not watching TV or playing XBox.

The huge pile of jenga style washing up proved that they’d not only tidied up their own mess but they had also tried to tidy up the breakfast things I hadn’t had time to wash up before I left the house.

Sometimes, people may not always get things right, but the sentiment behind what they do can mean even more than the action itself.

If cleanliness is next to godliness, those two kids will never be His right hand man, however. In that moment they were Angels to me.

Piece of my heart

07 Saturday Feb 2015

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There’s something that no one ever warns you about having kids. Or perhaps they do, but it is incomprehensible to you before you have them. I mean, I’m sure people told me, but I just didn’t really get what they were saying to me. Maybe I just didn’t want to hear, maybe we are genetically predisposed to not get it. The thing is, you find out. Pretty damn quick, and then you realise that it’s too late.

I didn’t actually plan my eldest child. That would have been stupid. I was 21, in a violent relationship and had a class A addiction. Ok, so I was obviously pretty stupid, but not that bloody stupid as to plan to bring a baby into my messed up world. Kids were not in my game plan, not that I actually had a game plan, but if I had, having a child would have been at the back, something distant, a target for my mid thirties.

I don’t know really why I took a pregnancy test (there was no real reason to seriously consider pregnancy) but I do know that I was alone, my partner was in prison for not paying a fine from years before that had finally caught up with him. I was driving from my house 100 miles to borrow the money to pay to get him out and I stopped and in the toilets of a service station, I pissed on a stick. To my utter terror, two little pink dots appeared. Well, I was utterly terrified when I bothered to read what that meant! I was pregnant. I was having a baby. Within minutes the terror turned to a strong feeling of protection and amazement. I had a baby inside of me. The ferociousness of that feeling was breathtaking. I remember going to pay for the fuel and telling the cashier; I just found out I’m pregnant, and her look of bewilderment at my random imparting of this news.

Within minutes I acknowledged this sudden turn of my life and now my life was completely changed. I knew without a doubt I loved this baby and wanted it, even though I knew that my partner would be furious and a terrible father.

And really, in that life changing moment, I should, in hindsight have realised what it was that I had never been able to realise before, but I didn’t. I focussed on getting through pregnancy, where I would end up with my beautiful baby and my life would be amazing. All I had to do was to bring this baby into the world safely. I still didn’t know the truth.

I was induced into labour many many weeks early due to complications, and then I couldn’t wait to give birth; to meet this baby who was a part of me, as much a part of me as my hand or face of nose.

And then he was born, after an excruciating labour, a long and torturous night, this tiny perfect baby. He was no longer in the cocooned protection of my abdomen. I cuddled him to me and held him and kissed him and stared in awe at his gorgeousness, and then it happened; for the first time. They said that he needed to go to special care. He was too small and unable to maintain his temperature, but it was ok, they were going to sort him out in special care and I could go see him later. The midwife, took him from my arms and as she turned away I realised, I realised this terrible thing that no one had told me about: it was agony. The baby that I had been in sole charge of, that I had nurtured and caressed and been fully responsible for, who was part of me, I was no longer able to protect. I still loved him as much, maybe more, however whereas before he was part of me, now he was separate. I wasn’t solely able to account for his safety and wellbeing. It was like a little piece of my heart was out there alone. Anything could happen to it. Even if I was there next to him, I was no longer able to have the illusion of being able to completely ensure he was safe.

As he got older, it got worse. There is a piece of me out there, every minute of every day, that I can’t live without, and yet over which I have limited control. If anything happened to him I would surely die. My natural instinct is to keep him close, keep him safe. And yet, to be a good parent, I’ve had to try to ignore the flutters in my heart when he walks out of the front door. I’ve had to stem the flow of my own veins and tears when he has been injured or upset. He is a part of me but I’ve had to accept that he is also fully his own self, with his own ways of crossing the road or dietary tastes. He could, one day make a decision that breaks my heart. If anything happens to him it will surely kill me too. It’s like walking around blind, deaf and dumb: at any moment your entire world could come crashing down around you. Your heart ripped away and there is nothing you can do to stop it. You can’t even see or hear when it is coming.

The stupid thing is, that even after finding this out, after watching a piece of me walking around unprotected, I didn’t ever think that having another child would mean another little piece of my heart walking around, jeopardising my life, as I know it. Or with the third. It just didn’t register, until the very moment that I had to let them go for that first time, and then it would hit me, a part of me was out in the big wide world without me to protect it. And that is huge. That is scary. And so I suppose it is no wonder that no one tells you, or if they do, that you might hear it, but you can’t understand. Because if anyone asked you, at any time, whether you’d like to live with your heart open and vulnerable, the very thing that keeps you alive, unprotected and uncontrollable, you would never ever agree.

Concentric Circles.

21 Wednesday Jan 2015

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I work too much. There ok I’ve said it out loud. In many ways it is not a problem, I love my work, I get great satisfaction from doing it and I get paid at the same time. Sometimes. I even welcome the break from wife/mother. I relish the moments when I feel competent and capable, something which as a parent/wife I often feel the the complete opposite.

The problem with that is that it is a bit of a self fulfilling prophecy. You see the more I work, the more competent and capable I feel at work, but the more incompetent I feel at home! If I work long hours, I feel guilt because I’ve hardly seen the children, or my house is a mess. If I work less, I start to feel concerned that I am losing my professionalism and capability at work. I also strongly care about my clients and genuinely want to do my best for them.

And the stinger here is that I want to work hard, so that I can provide my children with all of the opportunities that I think will provide them with a good stable home environment and the best possible start in life. However I’m also aware that having their Mum there is also an important piece of the growing up puzzle.

The other thing with working a number of jobs and long hours is that it leaves me with very little time to relax, and so socialising with friends has become something which I treasure. I look forward to it, however at the same time I feel guilt as its time I could be a) spending with the kids, b) spending time with my husband or c) working. I am a nightmare to book a social event with as due to work and other commitments it may be we suggest meeting up today, and by the time I can actually fit in a couple of hours of uninterrupted time, it is 3 months away! Not great when you want your friends to know that you care about them. That they matter too.

And my poor husband. To be honest I’m amazed he puts up with me. I’m lucky, I suppose that he can see why I work and the benefits of it and is pretty relaxed about it most of the time. To be fair, he’d probably have to diarise an argument even if he did mind!

It’s interesting to me though that I feel this unending guilt about working and my children, when it’s actually pretty normal for Dad’s to work long hours and no one really comments too much on it. Im forever being told that I work too much, what about your kids? I don’t think I can remember a time I’ve heard it said to a male.

If kids need their Mum, isn’t a Dad as important too? Are my kids missing out, on having a Mum at home with them after school etc? Possibly. Are they benefitting from having their Dad there as a constant, stable and reliable role model in their lives? Definitely. Although, their nutritional intake would likely be much better if I was the one feeding them at weekends!

Life is a balance and, I’ve definitely not managed to balance those scales yet. However, I’m certain that sometime soon, I’ll work it out. The concentric circles of guilt have me spinning at the moment, I’m aware that it wouldn’t take a lot to topple me.

Good enough.

10 Saturday Jan 2015

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I kind of look back on my early childhood as being idyllic. When I was growing up, my Mum was extremely ill. Sometimes she would be in hospital for months at a time, leaving us in the care of my Dad, and when he was at work, my Nan. However when she wasn’t in hospital (and even when she was) she was the perfect Mum. She didn’t work and was a stay at home Mum, which meant that she was always there for us. She walked is to school, she picked us up (and there are a lot of us). She would even have hot orange and hot chocolate ready for us on cold winter days. She always had time for us.

My Dad worked shifts and so worked irregular patterns, we’d never know when he would be home, but when he was he was great fun. He’d play tricks on us, like the time my brother and I were in the bath upstairs and it was snowing outside so he climbed a ladder up to the bathroom window and threw snowballs at us in the bath. One Christmas he made santa’s foot prints all across the front room. He built us a house in the garden. Life was good. Life was fun.

So when I had my eldest, despite all of the odds, I decided that my son would have the best childhood ever. I was going to be supermum. He would never want for anything. I would fulfil his every need. High expectations, even for someone who isn’t an addict, but as I was one it was nigh on impossible.

In my plan of me as a parent, I was going to give my son all the attention in the world, I would take him to the park, I would play cars with him on the floor, I’d build forts, Lego, do painting. Only, it soon became clear that I really wasn’t that type of mother; I am terrible at playing make believe games in which the rules change constantly. I don’t have the patience to build Lego cities, and even if I did I’ve not got a creative bone in my body. Basically. I sucked at being Mum. I was left with an unending feeling of guilt. I was failing at something that I should be perfect at.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love him or do my best for him, I just couldn’t live up to my own expectations. I had set the bar too high. Life got in the way. My need to go out and earn money, to clean the house or cook dinner interrupted my perfect Mum plans and the guilt of my failure got in the way. My patience failed me.

Roll forward a few years, I’ve now got 3 beautiful boys, each and every one I adore and love with all my heart. I am still not the supermum I always imagined myself to be. I don’t hit my own expectations of a perfect parent. I shout when I shouldn’t. I snap at them and get annoyed if they interrupt me doing something. Sometimes, I send them to bed early just so I can get some peace. I don’t always read them a bedtime story. I have missed school plays and “first” moments, because I’ve had to work. I use the TV as a babysitter. I moan when they make a mess.

I beat myself up about it. I wish I could enjoy those make believe games, ignore the chaos they leave in their wake, but I don’t. It’s just not me. I can’t play computer games, I’m rubbish at them, I get frustrated and irritable, I’m not good at this parenting malarkey!

However I have learned something in the last few years. I don’t need to be supermum. I don’t need to be perfect. If I talk to my parents, they tell me of things they did when I was a child that made them feel failures. And do you know what? I don’t remember any of them. The times they got parenting wrong, I don’t even remember! I just remember the good stuff. The times they got it right. I talk to my eldest and he remembers the day trips we took, not the time I shouted at him because I was feeling ill and he wouldn’t leave me alone. The time I didn’t turn up to the school nativity play is forgotten but he does remember the harvest festival that I took the day off work to see. The good kind of outweighs the bad. Nothing I have done has been so bad that it has overshadowed the good.

I am not a perfect parent, I’m not even a near perfect parent. I will hopefully manage to bring my kids up without doing too much damage to them. I might not be perfect but I am a good enough parent, and sometimes that is all you can do.

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The clock is ticking.

03 Wednesday Dec 2014

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It is 6:21am. I know this because I have looked at the clock every couple of minutes for the past 3 hours. Sleep, it appears is not for the likes of me. I mean, I don’t have 3 boys to get up, dressed and ready for school, a full day at work, then a social event this evening. I don’t have a college course that I’m 3 weeks behind on, and an exam next week….oh shit. I do. And somehow I need to fit in actually spending time with the kids, Christmas shopping and housework. No sod it, the housework can wait.

So, I’m lying in bed (it’s now 6:26, in case you are interested), trying to build up the courage to emerge into the freezing bedroom. I’ve been building up to it for some time, however gave only managed to achieve one shoulder and an arm out of the covers in order to type this.

I can hear the kids are up, well awake, only the eldest is up and off downstairs to the freezing bathroom for a shower. The younger 2 are in their room, not yet arguing (praise the Lord) and so, lying here in my snug warm bed, I feel quite maternal and in need of some hugs. In a minute I will call them and get them to come and cuddle me in my bed. In my head everyday, this is a special time, a time that I will look back on with joy and find memories. Perhaps I will, perhaps I will forget the squabbling of who kisses Mummy first; who gets to lie next to Mummy; who Mummy loves most; perhaps these snuggles are not for me to remember fondly, but for them to remember? Who knows, perhaps the passing of time will fade the memories of cold feet and hands on me in the cuddles, the elbows and the squabbling?

Perhaps it won’t. Either way I know in my heart that these moments are precious. That soon, like my eldest, they will be too old to want to snuggle me.

Now roll on those cold hands, I hear footsteps.