Milestones, eh? A romantic notion. And, of course, they can be – birthdays, anniversaries, births, deaths, marriages, first days, last days, what have you. Milestones mark a ceremonious, considered collusion of the caring (or, indeed, the unconcerned). Ahem …
My son, Captain Chatterbox, was six years old today. I have both loved and loathed, celebrated and cursed said years. Motherhood (and, sorry fathers, but it IS different, profoundly) has fulfilled me and fucked me up. How is it possible to be prepared to die for and also run away from someone who extracts every drop of your will to live yet replenishes it in an instant with a kiss, a cuddle, an “I love you, Mummy. You’re my best friend”?
Following a chat re toilet training yesterday afternoon, our daughter, Mademoiselle Headstrong, concurred she was “a big girl”. Naturally, she proceeded to poo in our bedroom, on The Husband’s thongs (flip flops), which she then used, bricklayer-style, to fashion said poo into neat geometric shapes.
Needless to say, I was very proud.
Well Done Me.