Parenthood

Does it ever get any easier? Could it be more wonderful?
I still remember the home visitor sticking a tiny trumpet on my stomach as I lay on our sofa, and heard, for the first time, that rapid rat-a-tat-a-tat of my baby’s heart, her body still only a couple of inches long. Astonishing (so fast! Should it be that fast? Was it okay?) and weird (that’s coming from inside me, but it’s not my heart!).

The health visitor joined in my pleasure and waited as the wonderment was gradually replaced with a worried look. “Oh yes!” she said, “It’s your baby, they’re fine, and that’ll be the last time you’re not worried about them. Now you’ve heard this, that worry is with you for all time.”

And then she laughed, gently and reassuringly. She was so right. That little nagging voice has been there for more than a quarter of a century. Both my children are well embarked on their adult lives, independent, resourceful, strong and mostly happy. And still, when I see their numbers as my mobile trills, I’m mentally taking a deep breath, readying myself in case something’s gone wrong, ready to drop everything, at once, to ride to the rescue.

I’ve written about my children in my poetry and they still remain the single most important thing I’ve ever done, and the thing that’s brought me most happiness. But if on that day in 1995 I’d seen what lay ahead, would I have had the courage to go on? Silly question. Nature arranges it that we don’t know the future precisely so we do carry on, taking leaps of faith, certain, even when we’re not sure, that this is what we want, that this is what we’ll try to do our best for.

I’ve written more about the dark things, the hurts and harms that have befallen them than about the good stuff, because it’s easy to cope with the good stuff, much harder to come to terms with the bad stuff. And poetry is my main way of thinking things through, transferring traumatic memories from my brain’s emotion centre to its story centre. So here’s a little balancing of the books.

There’s a photo of my oldest child standing in the sun, arms flung back, face raised to the sunshine, a grin from ear to ear, simply awash with joy at being alive. Or another of her crouching in laughter beside my husband, atop a windy hill somewhere. And another of her gazing adoringly at her father, kneeling on a wall beside the sea as he sups from a pint, legs astraddle the wall, oblivious to her adoration, taking it as every loving and loved father should – that’s how family life should be.

There’s a photo of my youngest held deep in his arms, nestling their head onto his chest, a look of perfect security and comfort on their face, their eyes closed the better to experience it. Or again, unbelievably happy and relieved as he squished and hugged them when they got their GCE results.

Our oldest was in the first ever women’s team to play rugby at Twickenham, and she still comes home with bruises and cuts aplenty, dismissing them as part of the game, loving the team-work and intelligence of the other players, giving it her all.

Our youngest performed at a local arts festival while still at school, singing some covers, but also some of their own songs. They’re artistic to their bones, producing beautiful and astonishing drawings too.

They’ve both held down difficult jobs, never complaining about the hours, the uncertainty, the low pay, but doing their absolute best.

One got a first from York, one a first from Oxford. Both have overcome difficult or damaging romantic relationships to emerge kinder, gentler people. They’re beautiful and bright and, by now (if they’re reading this) embarrassed to the point of telling me off.

I claim mother’s rights. I did all the hard work for the first nine months – I get to boast about them for the next ninety years!

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