One post at a time.
I go through periods of mourning my own parenthood. I didn’t expect that, to reminisce and yearn for years as they pass. I thought- for the longest time- that parenting involved ticking off boxes, being excessively grateful every time a new milestone was reached. My daughter is toilet trained? Mega bonus. My son can finally pour his own cereal in the morning? Total win.
And it is like that, to a certain degree. The older my kidlets get, the more independant they are, the easier things become. The more time I have to myself.
It is like that, and it’s not. Because even while I am grateful for every day older they grow, every task they can successfully complete themselves; I’m also sad. Sad in a place I only vaguely knew existed before.
I miss them being little. Tiny little. I miss having two sweet, grubby toddlers. I miss days at home with them. I miss cooking cupcakes and watching Play School. I miss cuddle toys and midday naps, dummies and playgroup.
I miss having the knowledge that these little people are mine to shape and grow. I mourn for the reassurance that if I’m fucking this up- and I alays feel like I am- I have time to rectify it. That I have years to turn things around, should they inevitably go awry.
I don’t have that leeway anymore. My children are growing like… children. The Chop is almost seven years old, the Bump just shy of five. She’s at school next year. And while I’m looking forward to that– to days of freedom, to slightly more independant little people– I’m sad, too.
My rose–colored nostalgia glasses insist on it. I wear them often, and they cloud most things with their sickly sweet pink tinge. It’s easy to mourn for things past. The future’s so unpredictable. It’s easier on the soul to hurt just slightly for things that have already happened, rather than think about what may come.