It seems like washing day rolls around all too quickly but hanging out your clean clothes reminds me of how much I love you. They are also a reminder of how much you’ve grown and what you’ve been up to (and in to). Even though you’ll make them dirty again soon, I love you.
Footnote: This was my second post on my blog. I think the whole thing fitted in the reader without having to click on it. I created this photo when my intention was to have ‘I Love You’ in every post. These early posts were written as if I was speaking to my kids. Somewhere along the line my voice started speaking to my fellow bloggers about my boys instead. I think I also got a little bored of the ‘dear diary’ style of writing I was doing. The photo for this took longer than the post, from memory.
I love you as we grow together.
Of course you’re growing up while I’m just growing older.
So when do we officially finish growing up? Some say it’s when you literally stop growing upwards. Being given the key to the door at
18 symbolizes the right of passage to adulthood. For some being a ‘grown up’ means being able to take care of yourself. Others think of grown ups as having a home, job and responsiblity to others.
Yes, I think I can tick all those boxes so all that’s left is to grow older. I refuse to use the term ‘old’. How do we define old anyway? Grey hair? Wrinkles? Bifocals? Walking frame? Chronologically I’m about to reach the start of ‘middle age’. I’m a well established plant in this garden of love.
I like to think of us as growing together. Of course we’re at different stages of our lives and you can’t possibly relate to where I am. I can relate to you though. I’ve been a child without a care in the world. Except, maybe, for wondering what exciting things we’re going to do that week, what’s for dinner and who I was going to play with on the playground.
We try not to burden you with the issues that face adults in our daily lives. We do our best for both of you and hope that when time dictates that it’s your turn you’ll be prepared. I grew you from a seed, we water you regularly, feed you all the nutrients you require, tend to your daily needs, talk with you often, watch over you with patience and pride and most importantly love you every single day.
My little seedlings seem to grow before my very eyes. Measuring them regularly on a growth chart proves my theory. They grow out of shoes and clothes at a rate of knots but I wish for it to be a little longer before they grow out of saying,’ I love you, Mum’.
Keep growing my sprouts! My love for you continues to grow as do I.
Image from: here.
I love to hold your hands.
We hold hands when we cross the road. In the supermarket I hold your hand so you don’t take anything off the shelf and inadvertently drop it on the floor. While walking to school we hold each other’s hands so you stay close and don’t get too far ahead.
Sometimes I feel like an octopus with two tentacles suctioned on to objects. Those objects can be sticky, sweaty or just plain dirty. But I made them and I love your podgy little digits interlaced with mine (we’ll just be sure to wash before dinner). When my hands are that full of bags, drink bottles and other paraphernalia all I can offer you is my pinky which you grasp like the last lollipop left in the jar.
On weekends we divide and conquer. You both love to swap between your dad and I, taking turns to hold onto my daintier version or dad’s masculine alternative. You adore holding onto one of each and swinging through the air after we count 1, 2, 3. Wee! Double hand holding with one of us for whizzies is also an all-time-favourite. I love to see you boys holding hands with each other. Watching my eldest guide his sibling makes me sigh and smile.
When you want to run ahead I have that fleeting feeling of what it will be like when you no longer want or need to have your hand held in mine. Like the lover who leaves on the train while her one true love stands on the platform holding each other’s hand through the open window until the train slowly chugs out of the station. Their fingers slowly slip away from each other in slow motion.
Back to reality and of course there’s the hand tugging and trying to pull away. There’s the refusal and the hiding of hands behind your back, like I can’t reach them back there. The whinging and whining for me to hold your hand as we go up a flight of stairs when I’m already half way up and you’re still on the bottom step should not bother me. The day will come when I’ll be at the bottom asking for your hand.
I don’t know what I would do if I had more children than hands. If you’d like to lend a helping hand and let me know how you deal with the hand-holding scenario with 3+ children I’d love to hear all about it.
I’d love to hold your hands forever.
Image from: here.
Short and sweet, I love you.
As my youngest fast approaches being the same height as his older brother it is becoming clear to the eldest that he is not going to be a ‘tall grown-up’. He is on the smaller side compared to some of his classmates. I hear your cries, ‘don’t compare your child to others.’ The problem lies herein. I have no issues with his somewhat lack of vertical development. My son has begun to notice that he doesn’t measure up in the….well….measuring department.
We have conversations about differences between people. Eye, hair and skin colour, where people live, what we eat, etc. Maybe I can sprinkle some magic growth dust on him as he sleeps or have him think tall thoughts. It doesn’t matter to me one iota how tall me may end up. I know I’d rather not give him the standard line that good things come in small packages. I’d just like him to be ‘okay’ with who he is and hopefully not blame ‘Mum’s genes’ for his stature in the height ratings.
I mean I love him just the way he is. I hope he will learn to love himself the way he is over the years with my help.
That’s my short, sharp and shiny post for today.
The long and short of it…I love you short stuff!
Image from: here.