My baby is about to turn one, and I’m having a bit of a crisis about it.
The reasons being,
a: this year has gone by like a flash. And it’s not like I don’t want him to be one – he is SO much fun he kills me – but that I feel like I’ll take a breath and be sending him to school. This is not ok, internet.
b: I have once again arrived at a point at which none of my clothes fit right or look nice. I wish my body would pick a shape and stick to it so I could work around it. I would like to be skinny again, very much, and feel bad that I am not and worse about being so shallow.
c: I have now had a year of this stay-at-home life, and decidedly do not have my crap together yet. Whence cometh the effortless homemade meals, the gloriously tidy house, the thoughtful visiting of old ladies, the volunteering in the community, the toddler reciting his times-tables over lunch? It hasn’t arrived here yet. And I only have one.
d: I am just totally in love with him right now. The chattering, and the way he laughs with a wrinkled-up nose, and the way he’s painting the kitchen wall with a tube of lip gloss at the moment, and the way he wants desperately to walk but won’t let go of my hand, and the fact that I’m starting to find things like biro in the space behind his ear. It won’t always be like this and I can’t keep him where he is. For evidence, see exhibit A, this business of turning one at the weekend. I am terrified.
Honestly, that’s why I write this blog, apart from the fact that writing and connecting with you fine people are some of my all-time favourite things to do.
Because maybe if I write him well enough, I can keep him still. At least for now. At least for the space of 200 words. Before he lets go of my hand completely.
I keep trying. Oh gosh, I can’t help it.