I’m aware that in my blogs – and via my word press name thingy – I may come across as though I don’t like my monsters. I do, I really do. I’d even go as far as to say I love them (and I don’t usually say that lightly).
Husband dearest has been getting ants in his pants and bees in his bonnet about the piles of stuff lying around the house. I like stuff. Stuff makes me feel at home and, provided the little sod doesn’t move it, I know where all my stuff is.
Anyway, tonight I agree to box up Monster Minor’s too-small clothes ready for storage. In spite of agreeing that we probably
maybe won’t have any more children, I haven’t been able to part with much stuff. Vests, blankets, even muslins, are all gathering dust around the house.
Tonight I decided I needed to strap on a pair and man the fuck up. I armed myself with my ‘keep it’ box and a ‘charity’ box. I tried to see the charity as ‘paying it forward’, as we’ve had some good luck recently. But even knowing the good cause, the worthwhile purpose, I still got a sense of… I don’t know how to describe it, other than hmph.
I love my monsters, and they’re each at such a totally wonderful age. I can completely sit absorbed in their innocent brilliance for ages and wonder over what I did right to get such beautiful creatures (no bias there, then). But with each new stage that comes, I find myself almost mourning for what has been. I packed up the newborn clothes with tears – it was so hard to think I wouldn’t be dressing a teeny weeny one in them again. Does this make me incredibly sad and incredibly selfish? Sad because I can’t see it for what it is – my children are successfully growing up; it’s what they’re supposed to do. Selfish because so many others wouldn’t be so lucky as to have children, let alone healthy growing ones.
With each vest, bootee and hat I shoved into my charity box, my mind swelled with memories. I bought that top at Tesco with my dad, as we wanted Monster Major to look smart for his great grandparents. I changed him into those pyjamas at the hospital when we took him down convinced he wasn’t breathing properly (he was fine, just a bit sad).
At this point in my blog entry, I’m supposed to wrap it up with some moral conclusion. But I haven’t got one. I’m clearly not one of those mummy types you look to to validate your concerns over your parenting. However, if there are parents out there who find this as difficult as me – you’re not alone. I think it is ok to feel sad that your babes are growing – it doesn’t mean you don’t look forward to the people they become. It is ok to hang too much sentimental value on something realistically insignificant. I don’t know why it’s ok, but it must be. And if it’s wrong, I have a whole loft full of wrong!
This is quite an introspective, pointless blog. But I did feel it important to show that I’ve got a softer side as well as a potty mouth. And I’m aware that this entry contradicts elements of my previous. But I need to practise contradicting myself – how else will I infuriate the monsters when they’re teens!?