I hate days like these, when my son, all of four years old, sits in his favourite chair, watching cartoons all day. He turns his sandy blonde head towards me and we share a smile. I can see his eyes sparkle as the idea hits him, the cheeky grin lift his lips before he clambers from the chair to the couch.
“Flash cuddle,” he cries, wrapping his tiny arms around me for a few seconds. Cuddle over, he returns to the chair and TV.
He should be outside running around chasing balls or riding bikes. We should be at the park or even wandering down supermarket isles together, out in the world, being a part of it. Instead, he sits there watching superheroes save the world and I lie here watching him.
I don’t cry about it anymore, well, not often at least, this is our life and I’m starting to accept it, but it still irks me. It’s not how I planed to raise my kid. Back in the days when I was always running around on full power, never sitting still unless my hands were doing something productive. Mind, body and spirit always in motion. I was full of life and energy back then, scared of nothing, willing to try it all. Now I’m scared of everything. The fear is justified, but that doesn’t make it easier to live with.
I often think that I should never have had kids, it was a minor miracle we made this perfect little specimen. I look at him and think “I’m so sorry you got me for a mum kido,” but I wouldn’t give him back. I know it’s selfish of me, selfish for me to want to have that unconditional love, to take such delight in watching him grow and comprehend the world around him, but for me to give so little back.
He’s the only thing that makes life real, liveable, worth waking up in the mornings for. “My own, my love… my precious,” the line amuses me so much that a small laugh escapes causing him to turn and look at me curiously, instinctively smiling because mummy is, my dimples deepen and my heart melts a little more. No, it could never be a mistake to have made him, no matter what mindless routines we have to follow to get through days like this one.
More stories by Tracey Ambrose @ traceyambrose.com
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