One day, I won’t be their whole world.
It’s hard to believe when David searches for my breast in the middle of the night because, without his little nighttime milk snack, he can’t fall back asleep. It’s hard to believe when Francis calls out that he’s done poo and needs me to wipe him. And it’s hard to believe when Joseph asks what it means that in India, people believe that after death, souls are carried away by the waters of the Ganges.
It can be exhausting. Hearing “Mum” every three minutes. Having a thought interrupted halfway through. Putting down whatever I’m doing. Postponing my own plans. Turning my attention to whatever someone small happens to need. And then trying to find my way back to myself. Sometimes I don’t even know where that self has gone.
And yet there is so much tenderness in hearing them say “Mum” for the very first time. I remember all three. And I keep them.
There are two wolves fighting inside me. One wants to always be the mother they come running to, the mother they crawl into bed with and wrap their arms around in the morning. The mother they bring every hurt and every joy to. At first, they keep nothing to themselves.
And then, more and more often, comes:
“Daddy, can I go with you?”
And I am left alone. It’s quieter. It’s good. But alongside the relief, my body feels the ache of missing them.
Missing that dependence we had from the very beginning.
And later still:
— What are you thinking about?
— My own things. Maybe I’ll tell you someday.
And I panic. I want to ask more. I feel another thread of control slipping through my fingers. But I leave him the space he needs. I won’t ask again.
There are two wolves fighting inside me. The other wants time for herself. Growth. Space for silence and sleep. Arms stretched freely across a bed without worrying about crushing anyone. And the absence of touch. A body that belongs entirely to me. Thoughts that can linger on what a beautiful morning it is. Coffee drunk without interruption. And that question I can barely remember asking myself:
“What do I feel like doing?”
They have been entrusted to us for a while.
And yet I feel as though they were only mine.
Only as they grow do I begin to see it more clearly.
That they are separate.
And that one day, they will leave.
They will be coming back. Call. Tell me about the things they choose to tell me.
One day, I won’t be their whole world.
But that day is still somewhere ahead.
For now, I still am.
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What do you think you’ll miss the most when your children grow up?
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