motherhood

For Now, You Still Fit In My Arms

~ ChanAtkins ~ 7 Comments

If only they hadn’t measured time, carved it up, named it and logged it. Maybe things would be different. But now we all hear the clock ticking, which we would never have heard if time as we know it had not been invented. Of course, time exists by itself. Just as the new buds bloom in the Spring, only to curl and dry and fall in the Autumn. Just as fresh faces become wrinkled. Just as dark hair turns grey. Spring turns to summer and before you know it, it’s winter again. Everything in the world is cyclical and there is nothing you can do about getting older. But I’m sure time got faster when they named it, when they carved it up into segments of years, months, weeks and days.

Like you. Like when you were just a gestation. You were four weeks, then five, then six, then seven. Every moment of it was counted and numbered. Time drags when you are waiting for a foetus to become a child. It seems an impossible and unmovable thing. It won’t shift. Yet it does. Time doesn’t just move on, it moves us on. That’s what it does. And we are rarely ready.

I’m never ready. I’m always behind. I’m always dragging my feet, right from the moment you are born. Of course, I want to see you grow. The very thought of it excites me. Who will you look like? What will you become? When will you first walk and talk? I’m excited about all the memories I know are glistening on the horizon. First swim, first ice cream, first Christmas, first word. I know them all because I have been here before three times.

And three times came and went far too fast, so with you I’ve been trying to hang on, trying to claw it back, trying to savour it, make it last, bottle it and contain it. Only it’s stupid of me really, because experience tells me none of this is truly possible. Time and years are like sand, when you watch it on the beach, when it washes in and out, never staying the same.

Why is it, every time one of you had a birthday I had to fight back the tears? Such strange, stupid tears. I know it was pride and ‘look at you now’. I know it was love and aching. But it was also desperate sadness and regret. It was disbelief that time had led us so ruthlessly to this point. To first birthday, to second, to third, to first day at school, to first teenage year. And it’s not that I want to turn the clock back…when I see photos of my babies, I instantly smile, maybe sometimes I tear up, but I wouldn’t want to swap who they are now, for who they were then..With time and change comes revelation and surprise. Chats in the kitchen after school. Passions, and music and politics and arguments. But maybe I would…just a bit…just for a minute, I’d go back if I could, but not for long. I’d reach into that old photograph and pull out that chubby toddler, plant a kiss upon her sweet head, smell her, feel the weight of her in my arms, close my eyes against it all and remember.

But of course, you can’t. You can’t ever go back, except for in your mind, except for with photos.

And so with you, I’m drinking you in. I promised us both. I would do everything by instinct this time, learn from the mistakes of the past, listen to no one but you. Give you everything you needed on demand. Know that love and cuddles and comfort can never spoil a child. From your siblings, I have learnt to follow my heart. To hang on as tight as I can, to absorb every moment into my soul, to know that nothing lasts forever, and sleepless nights one day become something I miss.

I can still fit you in my arms. I can hold you in my lap. I can scoop you up and tuck you under and lift you up. I can make you smile. I can make you laugh. I can tickle and kiss you and make your eyes grow wide with wonder with the smallest and simplest of things. Bubbles in the garden. Bumblebees in the flowers. Chocolate buttons and Mr. Tumble. Milkies.

You’re still mine for now, but not forever.

I can cradle you in the crook of my arm and at night that’s where I still find you, warm curls against my cheek, small hand inside my top, clutching, hanging on to comfort. At the end of the day I can smell your day upon your skin and it’s my addiction to inhale it all, as if somehow I still believe I can bottle it and treasure it forever. Grass and dirt, milk and chocolate, play-dough, and beans, and strawberries and chicken feed. It’s all there, and I don’t even want to bathe you, I don’t even want to wash the dirt away.

When I hold you I get the urge to squeeze you, to squish you back inside of me so that the whole thing can start again. I want to never forget the weight of your small body in my arms, the press of your soft round cheek against mine, the feel of your tired head upon my shoulder, the caress of your tiny fingers on my neck and in my hair, your heart beating against mine like it did from the start. Your breath.

I can’t really remember what you were like a year ago, and that’s hard. A year from now the same will apply. I’ll see photos and smile longingly but I won’t be able to conjure up the feel of your body in my arms or the smell of your day. I’ll have you there and then, in the here and now, where you exist from one moment to the next and I know it will be just as wonderful and just as precious and yet just as fleeting and impossible to hold onto.

The moments after your birth are the clearest to me, and perhaps they are with all my children. The panic and the fear, and the sitting up to see you whisked out of the room by one arm and one leg, and the big massive size of you , and the room full of faceless professionals and it was just me, in a haze and a blur, alone on the bed seeing you wrenched from the room. It was just me and you, though they were taking you from me, I saw your face and I heard your cry and everyone laughed and sighed in relief, and it was all going to be fine, and everything was worth it because you were so cute, so damn cute and I could tell you were mine.

It felt like years waiting for you to come back, and then you did, carried in by a proud and smiling midwife, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a blue knitted hat, and placed into my desperate, aching arms, and oh what a face, just like your brothers, what a bruiser, what a chap, what a chunk, what a boy. And it was me and you in a spinning moment that in truth could have lasted forever. And you were safe. And I loved you.

Addicted to you, because that’s what happens.

And now here we are. That moment seems so very long ago.

Time does not care for mothers like me, who want to calm it down a bit, who want to drag our heels and say hold on, not forever, but just a bit…

Time is impatient for the next season, and a newborn becomes a one year old, and a crawler becomes a walker, and a toddler starts to talk, and a child has their first day of school. And everything constantly, restlessly moves on.

It’s like every birthday I can see the ghost of them all waving to me from behind us all. Everywhere I look, everywhere I go, there are echoes of the past. One day I can feel their legs around my waist and then the next day they are far too big and heavy and tall to be carried. You can never recall the last day. The last day you carried them up the stairs. The last day you tucked them in and read them a bedtime story. We remember the firsts, but not the lasts.

But anyway, for now, a day after your second birthday, I can still fit you in my arms. I can still carry you up to bed, and cradle you like a baby. I can still scoop you up and know you won’t push me away. I can still smother you in kisses and breathe in the scent of you. We can still be the centre of each other’s worlds. For now.

 

 

Why Mother’s Day Is A Pisstake

~ ChanAtkins ~ 2 Comments

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Before I start, let me just say that it’s not just Mother’s Day that gets on my nerves, it’s all these commercialised ‘days’ we have to have. It’s the fact that you can tell what ‘day’ is approaching by what exuberant displays greet you when you walk into the supermarket. For example, my local Home Bargains shop was nothing short of a confused mess just recently when they were displaying Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day and Easter all at the same time!

Loads of things annoy me about Mother’s Day. Maybe I’m bitter and cynical. Well yeah, probably a bit. I’ve had plenty of nice ones, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had plenty of those sweet little cards they help them to make at school, and I’ve had croissants smeared with jam brought up to me on a tray in bed, and I’ve had kisses and cuddles and flowers and the rest of it. But I’ve also never had a Mother’s Day where I wasn’t hanging the washing out on the line at some point, or sorting the next load out, or planning the next days lunch boxes. It’s like once the duties are performed, everything goes back to normal.

And I do think people see it as a duty. The shops tell us what we ought to be doing. They tell us what we ought to be buying and when. I was in my local Tesco yesterday and the ‘Mother’s Day’ aisle was full of bemused looking shoppers, hastily shoving bunches of flowers under their arms, as I did, whilst probably thinking exactly what I was, surely I can do better than this? It’s all so contrived, that’s the problem. It screams of tokenism to the extent that it just becomes embarrassing. It’s Mother’s Day, therefore I shall buy a pastel coloured card with flowers and butterflies on it and give it to my mother to thank her for giving birth to me way back when. What else? Okay, let’s look around. What do women like? More specifically, what do mother’s like?

This is the other thing that annoys me. It makes me want to pull out my hair. Because apparently us mothers are all the same. It doesn’t matter how old we are, or where we are from, or what we believe in or dream about, we all like flowers. And chocolates. And teddy bears. Oh, and polka dotted garden gloves. And pastel coloured watering cans. And ‘smellies’ to pamper ourselves with. And even more infuriatingly, chick lit books and rom com dvds! Grrrr!

It’s just as bad on Father’s Day. They get treated to the same assumptions. Whiskey and ‘manly’ chocolate such as Toberlone and Yorkie. Driving gloves, and footballs, and mini tools and t-shirts with slogans such as ‘I’m the Daddy’ on them. They get breakfast in bed too, cards made by the kids in the shapes of ties and cars, and then everything goes back to normal. Why do we do it to ourselves?

Now I’m sure there are people out there who put more effort in, and if so, I congratulate you. I’m sure there are husbands who put real thought into what their wife and the mother of their children would enjoy on this special day. Maybe she gets taken out for dinner, or maybe she gets a day to herself, or a voucher for a beauty treatment or some such shit. I still don’t care. I still think it’s a pisstake. I still don’t think we need these days.

It’s patronising for one thing. It’s like we’re saying; for most of the year I will take you for granted and neglect to tell you what you mean to me, but on this one special day I will do the opposite and make sure you feel spoiled. Surely we should be treating each other better on a more regular basis?

My husband and I, being the cynical pair we are, gave up on Valentine’s Day years ago. The first few years we were together we felt like we had to go along with it. We both bought soppy cards and we both scoured the Valentine’s shopping aisle for useless and pathetic suggestions. We soon realised what a complete waste of time it was. We don’t even bother with anniversary cards or presents now. What do we do instead? We grab small moments between child-rearing and working, to reminisce on how many years it’s been now, and what silly things we can remember about that night…I tend to remember music, and there are still certain songs that will make me think about meeting him and falling in love. Surely that’s enough? That, and being as good to each other as we can be.

Christmas cards is another. Why do so many trees have to die so that we can send cards to people we don’t bother with the rest of the year? I stopped buying them and sending them years ago. Tedious and pointless. I won’t be dictated to by my local supermarket. I know what time of year it is, and I don’t need their flamboyant displays of utter crap items screaming at me for months on end.

Mother’s Day is annoying because it so often ends up being a token day, full of token gestures that amount to very little. I’ve had too many where I have ended up bristling with resentment, because after all the flowers and chocolates, the daily grind goes on. In my opinion Mother’s Day should be spent in the following way;

Women who have given birth, and therefore know what is is like to carry another human around in their belly, before pushing and grunting and screaming and heaving that said human out of their nether regions, only to be then thrust helplessly into a whirlwind of sleepless nights, shitty nappies, teething and tantrums, should be able to get together with their own mother’s, minus the lovely, dear offspring.

These women, these mother’s, daughters and sisters should be allowed to get together around a kitchen table, with mugs of tea and plentiful cake. They should be left alone for as long as they require. They should not have the fear of interruption by man or child. They should be free to moan, bitch, gossip, cry and laugh with each other for as long as they need. They should be able to unburden themselves of fear, resentment, exhaustion and bitterness. They should be able to congratulate themselves on a job well done, before the day is done, and it is back to business as usual.

Tomorrow, me and my family are hosting a Mother’s Day tea party for my unsuspecting mother. She thinks she is coming over to have a cuppa with me, but actually it will be my brother and his family and my sister and hers. I’ve been baking cupcakes all day. I’m sure she will be touched and pleased, and I’m sure we will all have a lovely day. But I hope she knows when she leaves, that I feel this way about her all of the time, not just once a year. She gave me life and she worked her arse off to keep a roof over our heads. She makes me laugh with her eccentric ways and her sensitivity. I see a lot of me in her, and from the moment my first child was born, I began to develop genuine sympathy for what she went through looking after us all. Now, I know!

I hope she goes home knowing that she is always loved and appreciated, because really we shouldn’t need the greeting card industry to remind us to do it! So my advice is this. If you have a mother, go and see her. Go and spoil her. But not just tomorrow. Do it whenever you can and do it when it is least expected. Think about her dying and not being with you anymore and get your arse over there to share a cup of tea and a conversation. Life is bloody short, and if we leave it all to random, token days to tell people what they mean to us, then we’re really missing out. We’re really missing the point.

 

 

Lessons From A One Year Old

~ ChanAtkins ~ 8 Comments

11889626_1028807190471879_5952087130499316575_nIt would be all too easy to become frustrated with you. I never have much time, yet time means nothing to you. You’ve got your whole little life to amble slowly down the lane, while the dogs are tugging me on. You’ve got a great big sky above you, and strange winged creatures that glide across it, screeching for your attention. It would be so easy to become impatient with you. You scream if you are strapped into the buggy. You don’t want to be held. You want those tiny legs to lead the way. You’re marching on with your own mission in mind.

Your mission is rarely the same as mine. I have time to keep and things to do. Chores that gnaw at my mind. Tiredness that makes my head ache and my teeth clench. But you know nothing of the sleeplessness you cause me, you know nothing of the jobs that await me when we get back home. You are in the right here, right now. I’ve got washing to bring in, plants to water, dinner to think about, rooms to tidy. You’ve got stones to collect and then throw around. You’ve got sticks to find and drag along behind you. You’ve got horses to stare at as they trundle past, flicking their tails at flies. You’ve got leaves to pick up and scrunch in your palm. You’ve got dirt to claw at with your hands.

It would be quicker, to scoop you up, screaming and kicking, to march on anyway, to drag you away so I can get on with the things that pester my mind. But I don’t. Not today. I let my breath out slowly, and just watch you. Just let you. I feel my shoulders relax, drop down and move back. I only move my feet when you move yours. I let my face relax, and stop straining my eyes into the distance, wondering how much longer it will take us to get home.

It’s meant to be me teaching you, yet there are so many things I can learn from you. Slow down. Look around. Look and listen and touch. To stop and see the world we live in through your eyes, is a magnificent thing. Everything grows bigger, brighter, surer. You don’t know anything, so every little thing makes you stop and look. Every little tiny thing delights you. It’s the same old boring lane to me, until I see it the way that you do.You crouch down to pick up stones, passing them from one hand to the next. You give one to me, then find another. You chatter and laugh at it all. You clap your hands. You stare, transfixed, when a bird breaks free from the hedgerow and climbs up into the sky.

Sometimes I am filled with despair when I look at the world. Sometimes my stomach tightens and turns over inside of me. Sometimes I wonder what the point of anything is. Bad news, bad people, bad times. Sometimes I look at you when you are sleeping, and I wonder what on earth  I have done. What world have I given to you? What hardships will you go through? Sometimes I feel such guilt I almost cry. To have a child is a selfish thing. You long for love, to be loved, and to give love, but you forget about the dying world you have forced them into. You push that aside and do it anyway. Then, when they are asleep, perfect and pure, untouched by anything bad, or sad, or hopeless, you think why?

The thing is, hope is why.

When you see the world through the eyes of the very young, you see the world the way it could be. You see people that smile and melt when they set eyes upon another, smaller, newer human. You see potential. What if? You see what they could do, who they could become. You think of all the good people who have lived and died, and the difference that they made.

You see wonder and beauty in every tiny little thing. You slow down. You calm down. You see a big brave beautiful planet full of chances. The world is a story, with a beginning, a middle, and one day an end. It has bad guys and good guys, and it has always been this way. Mammoth battles have been fought and won by people who cared so much…Wherever there is evidence of cruelty in human nature, there is also evidence of courage, selflessness and love. For some reason, I stop and think about all of these things when you are taking forever to walk down the lane. I am reminded that you have a place in this world just like all of us, a story you will become part of, your own, and the world’s.

Today you taught me to slow down, to breathe, to live in the moment and to have hope.

On The Eve of Your First Birthday…

~ ChanAtkins ~ 4 Comments

A glass of wine to celebrate…

Head full of ; ‘this time a year ago I was…’

Your brother and sisters are behind me writing in your card. Your presents on the floor, waiting to be wrapped. All I can think is; how? How can it be a year already? A year is nothing. Not a blink or a breath. It’s nothing. I sit here trying to remember how that happened…how those months passed, what happened and when…how old you were when you did this, or that. But it’s a blur, it’s out of my grasp. Surely you were always exactly as you are now?

Your red curls are turning blonde. Your new hair grows in straight. When I look at you I see one of the others depending on your expression and your mood. You are a perfect mix of all of them, and yet totally and utterly you. Walking for two months now, you push my hand away when I try to take yours. Already. You like to climb. You want to do everything that we do. You try to sweep the floor with my broom. You try to carry their heavy school bags about. You put toys down the toilet and try to scale the stairs every time my back is turned. You throw everything. You shake your head when I say ‘no’. You hate going to bed. You say ‘bub-bub-bub’ all day long. You love books. I know how to keep you quiet. Give you a pile of books. Any books. Our books. Your books. Board books. Soft books. Anything you can turn the pages of…and you will sit there for ages, a look of sheer concentration on your face, and that’s when you remind me most of your biggest sister. And when you get cross. When you get all mad and go all rigid and throw yourself backwards, with your mouth an open wail. We are all cruel and sit and laugh.

A year, a year, how can it be a year? They don’t give you enough time. Parenthood is one big rush. One big blur. Tearing about, never catching up. Trying so hard to slow a moment down, to grasp it, hold it, feel it and treasure it, to somehow sink it deep into your bones, into your consciousness, into your memory forever, but you can’t, you can’t, time moves you on. Life rushes you on. Months fly by. So much about you changes. It never seems possible that you will be any different than you are right now, and yet it never seems possible that you have already changed. I’m flagging every step of the way, breathless, left behind, knowing helplessly that every time you change, every time you move on, you are leaving me.

Parenthood is not enough time. Motherhood is the fiercest thing in the world. The thing grows inside of you, is part of you, breathes as you breathe, lives because you live. You talk to it. You are never alone. It kicks you and beats you from the inside, preparing you for the pain to come. It keeps you awake for the same reason. It is a thing, an unknown, a stranger and yet you love it more than you ever knew it was possible to love…

You hate it when the pain comes. The agonies of labour make you selfish. Just get it out. Get it out now. You think only of yourself and you dying. You think only of it being over, over, getting it out, out, out, and then the wet pop. The gush of uterine fluids followed by the gush of maternal love. Love is not a big enough word for it. You want it right away, You want to claim it. After all that agony. Your hands reach down, clawing desperately for the newborn child. You still don’t know it. It is still a stranger.

Until you get it in your arms. Until you pull it up to your chest, smell its hair, muck and all. See its face. Then you know it, and it knows you. And it doesn’t matter about the rest of the world, or anybody else. It is just you and your baby. Your child. Your flesh. Your blood and bones. Your seed. Staring back at you. Eyes look black and sparkling under swollen folds of fat flesh. Hair wet and bloody. Nose flat and wide. Lips full and pouting. Tiny bird like hands curling and flexing. The most beautiful thing in the world. The thing you would kill for.

Silence. Mesmerized. You take each other in. That is the longest moment you will ever get. That is the moment you could almost bottle up. You could almost trap into your bones. That moment goes on, and on, and on.

Until someone speaks. Someone outside of you and your baby. They speak, and things start moving on. Wash the baby, weigh the baby, dress the baby, feed the baby, take photos of the baby. Your moment is broken. Life tugs you both on. Time starts again. Chugging you forward. Into the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the sleepless nights, and the endless nappies, and the first tooth and the first meal and the first noises and the first words and the first steps and the first birthday is here.

From then on you keep looking for that unbroken moment. You seek it out. I know them when they come. I know them and I hold them and I breathe them in, but I am as helpless as ever to the passing of our time. Me and you. Bub bub bub. Pulling at my lip. That little agitated giggle you do when you know you are about to be fed. The way you rest your head on mine, the way you wake up suddenly smiling, and laying your head on me, up and down, up and down. Moments of pure bliss. Pure joy. Feeding you in our bed. Feeling the tug of your latch, the milky swallows, the droop of your eyes, the smell of your head. The feel of your small body in my arms, in my hands, on my lap, on my hip. How I will miss it when you no longer fit…

Happy birthday my sweet boy.

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