I am not even close to perfect, my darlings, but…well…
I think…
I am cool.
I am sooooo damned cool I still use the word, ‘cool’. To really get my point home, I might throw in a deluxe ‘coolio’. You are two lucky dudes to have a mum like me.
But I know there might be times when I am possibly not quite what you need and I am OK with that.
You see….
As long as grapes are purple, I will continue to belt out a bit of Purple Rain in the supermarket whenever I see these babies come in to season. In fact, I will continue to sing with gusto, if not simply to keep my own sanity whilst shopping with you two wreckers. Whenever you whine, “Muuummmmm”, I got “Mamamia, here we go again” up my sleeve, and I will throw out the Von Trapps, “So long, farewell”, at the school gate if I have to, including the little wave and side step. Sorry? Me? Not for a second.
Sweetheart daughter. You have taken to making thrice daily outfit changes. I am soooooo down with that. So long as you can take it off and put it on yourself, I am all over the pants with skirts combo, the tutus, the tiaras, the gumboots on a sunshiney day. But sometimes, enough is absolutely enough and my foot firmly goes down. I am no fashionista (aka Nina Proudman), but I would rather teach you about the value of what is inside as opposed to simply placing emphasis on how you look. Not sorry to be the fun stopper when you’re dancing in front of the mirror for the fifth time that day.
Those times when I declare it to be “Facewasher and PJ night”, it is quite obviously because I am a ‘Fun Mum’. It is nothing to do with my aching joints and exhausted brain. Hell, let’s throw in movie night, too; that might even buy me a quiet wine in peace. Are any of us sorry? Seriously, you guys are literally dancing with joy. Not sorry.
My son; when you screech at me to come look at what level you are up to in your new computer game, I am often lack-lustre in my joy for your new achievement. This is because, quite honestly, I am incredibly bored and increasingly irritated by your enthusiasm for these games. I cannot apologise for not sharing your joy when it comes to pushing blocks, leaping off buildings and joining forces with other scary dudes. It is dead to me. Get outside and play.
I will tackle you to the ground to give you a smooch as long as I can hold you. At this stage, you still let me squish your face and smooch your little cheeks, with the fakest of fake (please give me more) protests. I get this will change and I am open to reassessing later down the line, but I will ALWAYS kiss you goodnight, as long as I have you near.
Enjoy those craft activities at pre-school and school, my loves. Knock yourself out with that glitter and paint and scissors and glue and felt and pipe cleaners, because I really cannot do it. For one, my creativity levels are sadly bordering on useless. Perhaps even more selfishly, I detest it. Maybe if it was in an incredibly controlled environment…outside…maybe, but that’s me…done. I cannot even breathe when I am ambushed as I pull a piece of art unknowingly slaughtered with glitter out of your bag. Glitter is my nemesis.
I married your Daddy. We chose each other. You two kids were incredible gifts and I accepted you both with absolute wonder and love. I will love you, look after you, nurture you and fight for you, but Daddy is my one and we need precious time together. So there will be babysitters, and there will be times when I ask you to move over to the lounge so Daddy and I can eat a late dinner together and talk about our days. I need his love and adult conversation, just like I need your giggles and smoochy kisses.
No.
I am not perfect and my days as a Mummy are often long and exhausting.
But I am not sorry.
(….even as I write this eating stolen goodies from you recent party bag. Just thinking about your teeth… Finders keepers.)
