When my eldest son was about 4 months old I remember getting quite emotional over a cuppa with some NCT mums. The conversation had turned to the prospect of further children at some point down the line. When it came round to my two-penneth, a lump rose in my throat as I told the others that I really couldn’t imagine loving another child the way I loved this one. I hadn’t expected to say what I did, or feel the way I did about it.
In the
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early days of motherhood, my son was less a little boy, and more a neutral being that untapped an unconditional love from somewhere primal and previously undiscovered inside of me. I loved my husband: yes. I had loved our cat: yes. But this love felt worlds away.
Some nights between blurry early morning feeds I would look down and feel genuinely puzzled as to who or what this ball of flesh was lying on my chest. Gender or identity seemed redundant here; the overriding feeling was pure love and connection.
The following years were more rooted in the
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reality of parenting: I started a new career, balancing childcare fees whilst grappling with the physical exhaustion of chasing after a small child. That magnificent love explosion became everyday and deep-seated in my DNA as I went about life.
Fast-forward 8 years and most nights a familiar slip-slap of chubby feet on floorboards grows louder and the temperature inside our modest double bed rises by 10 degrees, until without warning I have become a human mattress for another androgynous being. This time a 3 year-old limpet has taken residence on top
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of me, searching, goldilocks-like, for an adequate place to lay his head; just the right combination of flesh, rib, lump and bump to make for a comfortable few hours.
Our bed really isn’t made for 3, and yet somehow we find room for us all to doze in unison. What is more, his 8 year-old brother sometimes joins in for the last 15 crucial minutes before the alarm goes off.
I really didn’t think I had love enough for more than our blessed first born. How wrong I was.
When my eldest son was about 4 months old I remember getting quite emotional over a cuppa with some NCT mums. The conversation had turned to the prospect of further children at some point down the line. When it came round to my two-penneth, a lump rose in my throat as I told the others that I really couldn’t imagine loving another child the way I loved this one. I hadn’t expected to say what I did, or feel the way I did about it.
In the early days of motherhood, my son was less a little boy, and more a neutral being that untapped an unconditional love from somewhere primal and previously undiscovered inside of me. I loved my husband: yes. I had loved our cat: yes. But this love felt worlds away.
Some nights between blurry early morning feeds I would look down and feel genuinely puzzled as to who or what this ball of flesh was lying on my chest. Gender or identity seemed redundant here; the overriding feeling was pure love and connection.
The following years were more rooted in the reality of parenting: I started a new career, balancing childcare fees whilst grappling with the physical exhaustion of chasing after a small child. That magnificent love explosion became everyday and deep-seated in my DNA as I went about life.
Fast-forward 8 years and most nights a familiar slip-slap of chubby feet on floorboards grows louder and the temperature inside our modest double bed rises by 10 degrees, until without warning I have become a human mattress for another androgynous being. This time a 3 year-old limpet has taken residence on top of me, searching, goldilocks-like, for an adequate place to lay his head; just the right combination of flesh, rib, lump and bump to make for a comfortable few hours.
Our bed really isn’t made for 3, and yet somehow we find room for us all to doze in unison. What is more, his 8 year-old brother sometimes joins in for the last 15 crucial minutes before the alarm goes off.
I really didn’t think I had love enough for more than our blessed first born. How wrong I was.
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Mammy, teacher, writer and occasional wife. After an unexpected family tragedy, I am taking time to focus on things that matter to me most. Being a mammy and wife is up there, battling closely on a daily basis with pursuing my love of writing... Thanks for reading. See my journey unfold at Instagram and blog at https://iwatchthesunrise.blogspot.co.uk/
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Selfish Mother blogzine is a platform for likeminded women created by journalist Molly Gunn in 2013. We have a clothing store called Selfish Mother Shop, which is where we sell our iconic tees and sweatshirts, eg MOTHER and WINGING IT 🙂 We’re inclusive, not exclusive and we’d love you to get involved. Writing for Selfish Mother is free and easy… it takes 1 minute to join! You’ll be able to share posts and events immediately… we can’t wait to hear what you have to say.
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