There are moments when I gaze at the beautiful boys in front of me and wonder at how I could want to do anything different with my life. Moments when they are delightful because they are them. Full of questions, full of wonder, full of smiles and cheek and dancing foolish. There are moments when I love every question uttered and moments when I can’t believe my luck in getting to raise such incredible people.
And then there are moments when I snap and rage, when the cries of, ‘it’s mine’ wear so thin that I want to lock away all the toys from their grasping hands. There are moments where I lose all sense of perspective. Where I try and get inside the mind of a three year old and find we are both as confused as each other as to why he has done what he did. There are moments that I think I will never be able to explain why it is we are kind to each other, why we don’t hit our brothers when we are bored and how we manage the hideous emotion that surfaces when we can’t have what we want right now. There are times I am convinced I’m raising a sociopath who will never learn how to live well in this world.
There are moments in each day, within minutes or even seconds of each other when I experience such extremes. There are times when I think I actually might be good at this parenting thing and times when I am terrified of the next step, terrified of getting it wrong and hurting my boys forever.
It’s so strange going through such extremes each and everyday, so strange not to be able to share it all with someone else. The people we see in a day only glimpse a snap shot of the insane rollercoaster of emotions that we go through. Maybe it’s the same for everyone no matter what life situation we are one? What do you reckon?
Raising children is ridiculously intense, wonderful and weird. That’s my conclusion after a day back in the solo saddle after half term. No news there then.