For six years I have had two shadows that weave in and out of my legs, follow me though the house- chattering endlessly- as I cook and clean and launder. They have grown like weeds and their combined force edges me out of my own bed, pushes me to the far end of the sofa, nudges me out of the warm spot in front of the fire.
For six years I have lived at the centre of a cyclone, a chaos, a maelstrom of sound and activity and exponential growth. For six years our family has grown from silence to activity, from one to two, from there to here.
Each weekend is a flurry of noise and events. There are presents to wrap for parties, hockey club and dog walking, homework and card-writing, ballet practice and card games. There are endless car journeys with pop music turned up as loud as is allowed. There is the noise and chaos you would expect of a family with two small girls, a dog and seven chickens. It’s no great surprise, though a source of great frustration, that DH retires so frequently to the woods with his chainsaw. I imagine the sound of a petrol-driven motor is actually soothing when compared with the Glee soundtrack played full volume.
Yet more noise on Monday morning when my alarm wakes me at 6.20am and I spend a frantic hour juggling girls and games kit and dog and breakfast whilst drinking coffee and wishing the bathroom guys would hurry up and put the shower in already. DH quietly disappearing to work whilst I cajole children into uniforms, hair into bunches and snacks into named bags. Then I load the girls and the school bags and the games kit, the drinks cups filled with hot chocolate and the handbag filled with whatever the children don’t want to carry, into the car and we set off for school.
But once they are safely deposited in Early Room with bags and kisses and the promise of something nice for snacks, what is there?
I walk out of the school gates unable to shake the feeling that I have forgotten something vital, my pace far slower on exit than arrival. As I get into the car my eyes fill with tears. I wonder, how is it possible that no-one else has noticed the gaping chasm in my chest where my heart should be? It must be gone because suddenly there is silence where once there was noise. The emptiness throbs in my ears, my lungs, my chest. No music, regardless of genre or volume, can mask it.
I walk the aisles of the supermarket, listlessly putting items in the trolley and it follows me. I look behind me frequently, convinced that I have lost something essential.
I have lost a child, a toddler, a precious baby that snuggled and grunted on my chest whilst it slept.
When she is returned to me in thirteen years she will not be the baby that called my name to come and fight the dark of night on her behalf. She will not need the magic of kisses on scraped knees or the soothing of feelings hurt in the playground. She will not watch whilst I clean up spilled milk and make her a fresh one- “in a cup with a lid full up to the top, and don’t forget to dry it all over!”
She will be a champion, a rock-star. She will know who she is and what she wants from this world in which we live. She will slay her own dragons, carve her own path, walk the world strong and tall and away into the distance.
And I will stay behind and watch her go. Proud and devastated. Much as I am now.
Though hopefully better prepared.
My first has just started school and I’m still wishing he was here with me. And I have a younger daughter, too! I’m sure it will feel very empty with them both at school, just as you say. This is a beautifully written post.
Thank you Nell and thank you so much for sharing.
My heart was breaking reading this. I have my youngest starting pre-school in Feb and am already dreading it let alone when she starts big school! I might have to keep having babies so there is always one with me. x
I can’t imagine it’s the most encouraging post to read for you then @Rebekah. That said, the joy in my children’s eyes today in Harvest Assembly made me know that they are where they need to be.
Ok so you made me cry. Beautifully written and really touching. Also a timely reminder to me to cherish the toddler years as they zip past my eyes.
Thank you Em!
just sorting my inbox and i found this again, and it made me well up again… its so beautifully written x
Thank you Emma. I’m still feeling it funnily enough, and it’s nearly been an academic year!
Kelly, this post is beautiful and true and heartbreaking. I am like you and already have a feeling of loss of anticipation of next September when Layla starts Reception. It feels so unnatural to me that she’ll be spending more time with strangers than me (and undoubtedly having a great time).
Hugs to you as you redefine your days. I know you’ll find a great sense of renewed and somewhat redirected purpose in them, right along with your greatest role of being mama to two school children. xoxoxo
Thanks Brittney. I confess I wasn’t so aware of it when LBG started school because I still had one at home with me but goodness, now that’s very different!
Very moving post. With Aaron having started reception a few weeks ago I totally relate. Did your youngest start this year too? Did you feel the same as above when the eldest started, or it’s been cemented by them both being at school? You told me a few weeks ago, when he was on half days, that full days wouldn’t enable me to get much more done, as it flies, and you were so right.
A beautiful, well written and incredibly MOVING post Mrs!
Liska
@NewMumOnline
x
Thank you Liska. Yes, she started in September and it definitely has been more significant that when her sister started. I think my grief is more profound now because I am also guilty that I didn’t feel this sadness as much when LBG started.