There is a terribly hard thing found in having children. It's called growing up.
As I watch my cuties daily, it's hard to see the growing and changing. It happens slowly, without warning. Until I blink. And then yesterday is suddenly years ago.
And then there are those moments that I find myself confronted with the growing up, in all it's amazing wonder and I-can't-believe-we-made-it-here feelings. There is that overwhelming feeling of happiness and gratitude to have made it through the difficult times. Then there is remembering times that will forever be crystallised as moments of pure joy, connected to that incredible feeling of my heart bursting out of my chest. Those moments feel like they can never be matched.
All of these wonderful feelings are always there when I look back.
But there is another feeling that I struggle with. It's that brief, niggling feeling of sadness, that is very real and there, not because of anything sad really. It's that sad-through-smiling feeling that comes from moving on, never to return again. It's the deep knowing that comes from moments that are truly gone.
As I spent time today taking photos of Term 4 2014 artwork and school work and writing and everything my children created, I had far too much time to think. My mind went back to the moments they each created their work or proudly showed me finished items. I continued to take photos, and place the items in the rubbish bag. Over and over. Smiling. Remembering. And that sigh, knowing those times are over.
Yet again I was faced with the reality of moments lived becoming memories. And so quickly.
All the moments I live are never to return.
The memories, in all the incredible rawness, the heart-breaking hurts, the sweetness, the you-are-the-best-mummy bits, the midnight adventures, the tears, the smiling-till-it-hurts, the too-hard days, the hugs that feel never-ending. And then there are the in-between nothing days that I once thought I'd be glad to leave behind, but five children on, know one day I will want back.
I know I will.
I know I will because of the little you-are-my-world smile of Jack's that disappeared. I know because of the rest-of-the-world-ceases-to-exist feeling, I was privileged to feel each time Henry needed me to lay snuggled up beside him to fall asleep, is over. I know because Isabel and Lucy no longer sit together reading pretend stories to each other, giggling. It has been such a challenging 11 years, and many times I felt I would never see light again. It has been incredibly hard. I remember being told so many times that my actions then would mean that I'd be doing something forever. But it all ended. Each hard time ended, leaving wisps of memories that will forever have me smiling through threatening tears.
A few months ago Daisy's Paediatrician warned me that if I continued to give Daisy a bottle at night she would never stop. I nodded and listened. I have learnt over the years to 'smile and nod' quite well. But I was thinking to myself how I'd love it to be true. The scared mum I was with Jack, worried that each stage wouldn't never end, is long gone. Left in her place is a mum who holds onto each moment as it passes knowing it will be over too soon, never to be repeated again. A few more months snuggled in a rocker with a toddler will disappear in a heart beat. And there is no way in the world I will rush them to be over.
The only always with my children is love and change. I will always love them and they will always grow and change.
Having a front row seat through the growing up moments is such a wonderful gift. And I will continue to be thankful for each amazing and challenging experience. Although sometimes it will be with a smile and a lump in my throat.
And I will endeavour to love them through each new memory we create together.
Evermore.
Jen.x
Yet again I was faced with the reality of moments lived becoming memories. And so quickly.
All the moments I live are never to return.
The memories, in all the incredible rawness, the heart-breaking hurts, the sweetness, the you-are-the-best-mummy bits, the midnight adventures, the tears, the smiling-till-it-hurts, the too-hard days, the hugs that feel never-ending. And then there are the in-between nothing days that I once thought I'd be glad to leave behind, but five children on, know one day I will want back.
I know I will.
I know I will because of the little you-are-my-world smile of Jack's that disappeared. I know because of the rest-of-the-world-ceases-to-exist feeling, I was privileged to feel each time Henry needed me to lay snuggled up beside him to fall asleep, is over. I know because Isabel and Lucy no longer sit together reading pretend stories to each other, giggling. It has been such a challenging 11 years, and many times I felt I would never see light again. It has been incredibly hard. I remember being told so many times that my actions then would mean that I'd be doing something forever. But it all ended. Each hard time ended, leaving wisps of memories that will forever have me smiling through threatening tears.
A few months ago Daisy's Paediatrician warned me that if I continued to give Daisy a bottle at night she would never stop. I nodded and listened. I have learnt over the years to 'smile and nod' quite well. But I was thinking to myself how I'd love it to be true. The scared mum I was with Jack, worried that each stage wouldn't never end, is long gone. Left in her place is a mum who holds onto each moment as it passes knowing it will be over too soon, never to be repeated again. A few more months snuggled in a rocker with a toddler will disappear in a heart beat. And there is no way in the world I will rush them to be over.
The only always with my children is love and change. I will always love them and they will always grow and change.
Having a front row seat through the growing up moments is such a wonderful gift. And I will continue to be thankful for each amazing and challenging experience. Although sometimes it will be with a smile and a lump in my throat.
And I will endeavour to love them through each new memory we create together.
Evermore.
Jen.x
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