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View as: GRID LIST

Turning two: a letter to my toddler

1
I don’t actually know how we got to this day. When people talk about things in years it implies a long amount of time. But it seems only a few minutes ago that you were being handed to me, all red faced and balled up fists. And then I made the mistake of blinking… and when I opened my eyes again you were two. Two years old. Two years as a mum. Two years of endlessly lurching from questioning myself to congratulating myself. Over and over, and over.

I’d like to say I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday but I don’t. I don’t

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2
even know what time was when I first met you, as I hadn’t quite slept off the cocktail of general anaesthetic, pethadine and gas and air. I know you were officially born at 10.06am after I’d tried for many, many hours and failed (technical term, that) to encourage you out. I know that your Daddy and your auntie were busy enjoying a sausage sandwich while you were pulled into the world. I know that a lovely, selfless student midwife held my hand throughout the c-section because I was so upset to be put to sleep and make Daddy miss your birth (and your
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auntie miss seeing what a placenta actually looks like.) I know that you had the wrong name on your wristband for a few hours because I’d not got through all of our name options before going under. And I know I lost an earring that one of my best friends gave me for my birthday in all the rush to get me to surgery (sorry Ami). But that’s about it.

I beat myself up for a long time afterwards thinking that I’d done us both out of a proper birth story to tell. I even went to one of the hospital’s ‘Birth Afterthoughts’ sessions with the matron

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4
to try and put my jumbled-up thoughts of your birthday into some semblance of order. I’d been thinking for a long time that I’d got something wrong, that you were in trouble, that somehow it was all my fault. But it turns out that you were just really happy to stay where you were and didn’t want to do what everyone else wanted you to do. Kind of set the tone for the rest of your life really.

Now you’re two and I’ve learnt that none of that matters at all. Who cares how you got here or if I can even remember it; you got here safely and

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we’ve kept you safe for the past 24 months. That’s what counts. And now you’re two I can see all of the best, and worst, bits of me and your dad coming out of you. And some elements of your own little personality that I have no idea where it’s come from.

You’re charming and cheeky; even as a toddler you have comic timing and you know how to make a girl smile. You know how to get everyone on side and all the older ladies love you. That’s all your dad.

You’re driven and determined; you won’t let a “no” or a “don’t” stop you.

SelfishMother.com
6
You’re the only child I know who’ll deliberately put their hand on a hot radiator while staring a horrified adult down, just to show that you can do it even if someone says you can’t. I’m afraid that might be a bit of me. (When you’re older I’ll actively encourage it but for now, I want to avoid A&E and the social services, please.)

You have relentless energy. I’m sure that’s just a toddler thing but you are ‘on’ from the minute you get up until the minute you go to bed. And sometimes in the night too. With sleep-loving parents

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like us, I just don’t know where you get that from. I’m hoping your sleep-loving older sister’s influence will rub off on you soon.

Most importantly, you’ve changed me. I look at people differently now; I’m less judgemental and more tolerant. (I’m generally more pissy with Daddy though. See above re: the sleep thing.) I’m more aware of the kind of person I am so I can try to show you there’s good in the world even when it gets really bad. And I just don’t have the patience for needless drama when I’ve seen how your life can change

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so dramatically in one instance. I also now have a permanent diastasis recti and a thyroid that self-implodes but there you go…

It’s been a whirlwind ride and one that sometimes has me questioning why I ever chose to get on it but my life would be bleaker without your smile and lot less empty without your daily soap opera. So happy birthday little man. You deserve the best day ever.

p.s please sleep through.

SelfishMother.com

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- 25 Mar 18

I don’t actually know how we got to this day. When people talk about things in years it implies a long amount of time. But it seems only a few minutes ago that you were being handed to me, all red faced and balled up fists. And then I made the mistake of blinking… and when I opened my eyes again you were two. Two years old. Two years as a mum. Two years of endlessly lurching from questioning myself to congratulating myself. Over and over, and over.

I’d like to say I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday but I don’t. I don’t even know what time was when I first met you, as I hadn’t quite slept off the cocktail of general anaesthetic, pethadine and gas and air. I know you were officially born at 10.06am after I’d tried for many, many hours and failed (technical term, that) to encourage you out. I know that your Daddy and your auntie were busy enjoying a sausage sandwich while you were pulled into the world. I know that a lovely, selfless student midwife held my hand throughout the c-section because I was so upset to be put to sleep and make Daddy miss your birth (and your auntie miss seeing what a placenta actually looks like.) I know that you had the wrong name on your wristband for a few hours because I’d not got through all of our name options before going under. And I know I lost an earring that one of my best friends gave me for my birthday in all the rush to get me to surgery (sorry Ami). But that’s about it.

I beat myself up for a long time afterwards thinking that I’d done us both out of a proper birth story to tell. I even went to one of the hospital’s ‘Birth Afterthoughts’ sessions with the matron to try and put my jumbled-up thoughts of your birthday into some semblance of order. I’d been thinking for a long time that I’d got something wrong, that you were in trouble, that somehow it was all my fault. But it turns out that you were just really happy to stay where you were and didn’t want to do what everyone else wanted you to do. Kind of set the tone for the rest of your life really.

Now you’re two and I’ve learnt that none of that matters at all. Who cares how you got here or if I can even remember it; you got here safely and we’ve kept you safe for the past 24 months. That’s what counts. And now you’re two I can see all of the best, and worst, bits of me and your dad coming out of you. And some elements of your own little personality that I have no idea where it’s come from.

You’re charming and cheeky; even as a toddler you have comic timing and you know how to make a girl smile. You know how to get everyone on side and all the older ladies love you. That’s all your dad.

You’re driven and determined; you won’t let a “no” or a “don’t” stop you. You’re the only child I know who’ll deliberately put their hand on a hot radiator while staring a horrified adult down, just to show that you can do it even if someone says you can’t. I’m afraid that might be a bit of me. (When you’re older I’ll actively encourage it but for now, I want to avoid A&E and the social services, please.)

You have relentless energy. I’m sure that’s just a toddler thing but you are ‘on’ from the minute you get up until the minute you go to bed. And sometimes in the night too. With sleep-loving parents like us, I just don’t know where you get that from. I’m hoping your sleep-loving older sister’s influence will rub off on you soon.

Most importantly, you’ve changed me. I look at people differently now; I’m less judgemental and more tolerant. (I’m generally more pissy with Daddy though. See above re: the sleep thing.) I’m more aware of the kind of person I am so I can try to show you there’s good in the world even when it gets really bad. And I just don’t have the patience for needless drama when I’ve seen how your life can change so dramatically in one instance. I also now have a permanent diastasis recti and a thyroid that self-implodes but there you go…

It’s been a whirlwind ride and one that sometimes has me questioning why I ever chose to get on it but my life would be bleaker without your smile and lot less empty without your daily soap opera. So happy birthday little man. You deserve the best day ever.

p.s please sleep through.

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Mum to one and step-mum to another, working and living in the Midlands. I used to write about other people, now I'm trying my hand at writing about myself. Pretty much only had a baby so I could dress someone up in a costume at least once a week...

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