Not Enough Children
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Friday, June 30th, 2006On Sunday my husband and the boys made popcorn and lined up in a row on the sofa to watch the England v Ecuador world cup match. I even made Matthew hold the baby, reminding him that he shouldn’t absent-mindedly feed the newly-weaning baby popcorn - the beer would be okay, but the popcorn might make him choke - and I went off to the other end of the house to vacuum. As I went I looked back at my boys, any thoughts of me already far from their minds, and I felt real pride at the boys they are becoming. Even Matthew has learned to wash his hands EVERY TIME he uses the loo.
But then as I was cleaning, I felt the strongest longing for a daughter, for an ally in this sea of men, for someone to do girlie things with, to take shopping, to gossip, to share those times when she has children of her own. The dynamics of a family of several boys is unknown to me, both as a woman and knowing only what it is like to be a girl, and also growing up in a household with siblings of both sexes. The dynamics of a family with several boys is also presumably different to that of a family with only a son. For a start there is So Much Testosterone, even at this tender age; often the four year old has killed 38 people even before breakfast, while the three year old watches, taking it all in, only to declare war on his Thomas the Tank Engines. I’m sure it is only a matter of time before the baby joins in with his AK48. Don’t get me wrong: they are still in touch with their feminine side. Just. I have only to witness them playing with friends’ dolls, feeding them milk from their bellybuttons and cradling them, before the unsuspecting dollies are gruesomely beheaded and thrown across the garden. Or, look, the doll that GOT DEADED IN THE NUCLEAR SHOOTING, MUMMY.
Friends see us arriving and have learned to hide their favourite plastic friends.
As the boys get older there will be more fighting, pointless wedgies and painful Chinese burns along with all the other physical joshing and jostling that boys need and thrive on. There will be lanky teenagers and finding dirty magazines under the mattress. There will be girlfriends and eventually daughters-in-law. It will be wonderful. But still, when I picture my grown up family, there is also a girl in there somewhere. Of course she may grow up to be a tomboy and even refuse to have children after growing up in the noisy melee that is our household. But there is definitely a girl in there somewhere.
Though of course Matthew may have something to say about continuing to sprog until I get one.
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Need
Friday, March 24th, 2006My baby is a ‘needy’ baby (what baby isn’t?). But standing in the kitchen this morning, looking out at the beginnings of spring sunshine, I was suffused with such an overwhelming feeling of love for this little boy. He may be ‘needy’ but the truth is I need him as much as he needs me.
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Now you are three and a half
Tuesday, August 16th, 2005Dear Harry
Harry, my first born. There is so much I want to say about you. You are the most loving, beautiful child and every day you surprise me with your capacity for love and cheekiness. You have the most beautiful smile and you make my heart soar every time you smile your soft smile.
Before you were born, like most mothers-to-be, I had no real concept of how much I would love you. But from that first day you lay in my arms, gazing at me, I have had more love in my heart than I knew was possible and I have fretted, feared, been amazed and overjoyed by every part of your life.
You went almost overnight from saying nothing to having a vocabulary of about 160,000 words. It was as if you decided that you would talk when you, and only you, thought you should. Your ability to do difficult puzzles and the concentration that they require is nothing short of outstanding. And you come up with counter-arguments to my instructions without batting an eyelid and often I can’t think of any good reason why I shouldn’t let you do what it is you want to do (”but if I do that washing up Mummy then you won’t have to do it after I’ve gone to bed and you can walk the dogs instead!”). You are without a doubt the cleverest son any mother has ever had.
You are also completely my boy. Your looks, mannerisms, concerns and expressions are entirely me and I find it amusing and a little scary to see what a carbon copy of me you are. I’m sure therefore you reflect the worst bits of me but either I don’t have any bad points or else you have picked up the best of me and run with that. Of course your ability to tantrum is out of this world but we’ll gloss over that.
Now you are three and a half and every day, after lunch, we still cuddle under our blanket. Often I think you won’t want to but then you climb in with me and kiss me and hug my neck so tightly and I hope these moments will never end. I have barely been apart from you and although I have found that hard sometimes from my own perspective, I also know that I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Over the next few months and years I know you will make more friends at nursery and then school and you will, rightly, grow away from me but I will always be there for you.
I can’t imagine loving anyone more than I love you, my beautiful boy.
Love
Mummy
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Happy Birthday, little fella
Sunday, May 29th, 2005Dear William,
William, my baby. There is so much I want to say about you, my little fella. When your brother was born I couldn’t imagine loving another baby as much, but of course I did. You are almost 2 now and not a baby anymore. You love to fight with your big brother. You love to dive, footballer-style, when you tantrum although you always check first to see if anyone is watching otherwise it’s not worth doing, is it? You love to hang your head when you know you have been naughty. You love to kiss your brother to say sorry, or just to kiss him. When we come downstairs in the morning, your little body stiffens when you see the dogs and you shout “wer, wer” [woof, woof] in anticipation of hugging them. When we come downstairs after your afternoon nap, your little body stiffens when you see your older brother and you shout “Bubby” in anticipation of kissing him.
But you are such a boy. You love rough and tumble. Your favourite time of the day is when Daddy comes home at bedtime (a rare event as Daddy is often not around at bedtime). And while I try to calm everything down a bit, I can’t help standing there smiling as I watch you both roughhouse, you getting increasingly excited and excitable. Then you will lie down together and cuddle, looking into each other’s eyes adoringly, until you decide it’s time for more rough stuff and then you leap up laughing and goad your father into more play.
You eat and sleep for England. I sometimes see the look on other mothers’ faces when they see you in action at the dinner table. I wish I could take the credit for being a great mother and weaning you perfectly so that you loved every taste that I offered you, but the truth is you just love food. And after a busy day (which is every day), you are always ready for bed, always happy to let go of the day, rarely waking except for the worst teething pain or when you are poorly. While every mother hopes for a happy, healthy baby, hopes for a good sleeper must surely be close behind.
But you are still my baby. Every morning just before lunch, when you are starting to get tired, you will find your muzzy comforter and climb into my lap, placing your muzzy just so on my shoulder. Then you suck your fingers while I kiss your head. I can let go of most of the baby stuff, but the day this little routine of ours ends I shall know that you are really no longer a baby.
Tomorrow you turn two. Last year I could barely celebrate, I was in such depths of depression. Today I am as excited to wrap your presents and make your cake as you will be to see them tomorrow and for that I am incredibly grateful. You are my baby and also my little boy. I can’t imagine loving anything more than I love you. Happy Birthday little fella.
Love
Mummy
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I gave birth to tomcats, not children
Tuesday, March 15th, 2005Yesterday the boys were so feral that, by the time bedtime rolled around, I barely wanted to kiss them goodnight.
Ten minutes later, before I had even finished hanging the laundry, they were both sound asleep. Looking at their little soft warm faces, all I wanted to do was kiss them over and over.
Feral, I remind myself, for fear of waking them. Completely feral.
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