I spend far too much time moaning about my children, and not nearly enough time appreciating and enjoying them. After all, does it really matter that, thanks to an application of crayon, my decor is more shabby than chic? Or that, thanks to a couple of natural twin deliveries, I have lady-bits that would put Dumbledore’s sleeves to shame? So I have resolved to take time to praise my children, and today it is the turn of the two year old.
My son is technically 26 months, although I gave up counting in months sometime ago. A colleague of mine still refers to her children that way; she has a ’37 month old’. I fear she may have issues with accepting that the baby days are far behind her… I wonder how long she will continue; “my 216 month old has got 9 A*s at A-level”, “of course my 420 month old is a barrister now…”
My son was born at 28 weeks, weighing 3lbs, shortly after his brother, who came in at 2lbs 9oz. For five weeks they lived side by side and linked hands as I held them both in my arms. I wonder sometimes how it will impact on him; this abrubt change of identity from twin to singleton, when his brother died that day. Impossible to know, and I am conscious not to impose my own grief on his two year old innocence. He is, however, a miracle; both of nature and of science, and I am grateful for every second I spend with him. I just don’t always show it.
He was only 16 months old when his sisters arrived, following a period of months where he came to believe that mummy was surgically attached to the sofa. Annoyingly, his father still holds that view, which I feel is grossly unfair. Good one to one time between mother and son has been limited, so yesterday we left the girls with the nanny and went off for an adventure. This involved a trip to a large antiques centre so that we could hunt for clocks. My son is obsessed with clocks, which he unfortunately pronounces – loudly – without the second letter. When he visits my parents’ house, he spends much time in the hall looking at the grandfather clock; a harmless pursuit, except that he frequently informs me, generally in Waitrose or some other public place, that he has been playing with “Grandad’s big clock”. I’m just waiting for the call from Social Services…