Why do I feel embarrassed when he struggles at handover and cries out for me?
Why do I feel like I’ve messed up somewhere along the way?
Why do I race ahead on the walk home so that the other mums can’t see me carrying my four-year-old?
What am I afraid of? To be seen to be mothering too hard, for too long?
Do their hearts suddenly outgrow us, just because their legs did?
Why is so much value placed on early independence? Why do we so heavily praise the well-behaved, the resilient, the brave, the ones who smash those arbitrary milestones, the ones who can
soothe themselves?
What about the clingy ones? The ‘difficult’ ones. The ones that keep us up all night. The ones that struggle with change, transitions and…pants.
The ones that just need us that much and for that long. The childlike children. Is there not merit to be found there too? Something actually quite lovely about *that*?
What is the big rush? Is there supposed to be a cutoff to this intensive mothering of mine? Is it three, four, five… twenty-five?
No more apologies. I am his mum and I always will be.