One woman's perspective of (twin) parenting (and other thoughts about things)
And just like that, it’s July.
We ploughed through the 18 month point without really noticing and suddenly I find myself referring to the Smols as “getting on for 2” (in much the same way as I am getting on for 40, i.e. it’s a little way off yet, but getting littler).
Now, with that intro, you might be expecting a post about how awful it is that time persists in passing and how the Smols are no longer particularly smol and how much I regret not cherishing the early days et c et c…
Well, you might be expecting that if this is the first post of mine you’ve read.
But, as with most things in life, it’s a little bit more complicated than that.
The other week at college, I was introduced to a quotation from the perpetually mind-poking Carl Jung:
“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”
And why is it relevant here? Because I’ve spent a large portion of the last 19 months being Really Irritated by people who tell me (and others) to treasure the early days…and I think it’s entirely possible that my anger is borne out of a quiet voice saying “that’ll be you one day”.
As if to cement this hypothesis, a few weeks ago I came across this beautiful poem. It’s called ‘Blink and you miss it’ and it’s by Sarah Turner (AKA The Unmumsy Mum).
It has left an indelible mark on my brain and I have not stopped thinking about it.
Thought number one: if The Unmumsy Mum can write something that hints at regret of time passing (and, crucially, experiences it to the extent that she’s motivated to write about it), what hope is there for me? Am I destined, despite my best efforts, to actually regret not treasuring the early days?
Thought number two (and here’s where the Jung comes in): I really don’t want to become the type of person I’ve rallied against this whole time. I don’t want to find myself, in 5 years time, telling other people to treasure the early days. I don’t want to discover that my anger comes from understanding, on some level, the inevitability of becoming that which I despise.
Clearly, further reflection on this poem was needed. And here’s what I’ve discovered:
Firstly, there is a notable difference between the poem itself and (some of) the responses to it. Sarah has written openly and honestly about her own personal experience, but crucially has avoided making reference to anybody else’s. She doesn’t say “and so will/should you!” at the end. (Although the fact that I took away that message is something for me to work on…) However, for all of Sarah’s lack of preaching, the comments are not so measured. Dotted throughout the replies are a few variations on the following theme: “This is so right! I didn’t get it until it happened to me and now I tell every parent I know to ENJOY EVERY SINGLE MOMENT!”
It was these comments that made me realise what it is I’m actually scared of.
I am not, it turns out, scared of being sad at the impermanence of beautiful moments (which is quite the weight lifted, I can tell you). What I am scared of is holding onto that sadness so tightly that it turns me into somebody who tells other people to stop being sad.
So, how do I avoid this?
Like a lot of things in (my) life, I think it comes back to mindfulness. Recently, I’ve been working on being ok with the little twinges of regret as and when they pop up (which is happening more and more as times get better and I move further away from The Really Bad Days). Acknowledging them, accepting them for what they are, and letting them go in order to be able to focus on the here and now. That is what I think Sarah’s poem has inspired in me - an ability to be at peace with thinking “huh, I miss the days when xyz”, and letting that thought pass by without spiralling into a big heap of regret or fear determined to save everybody around me.
But *also*, maybe mindfulness doesn’t just involve paying attention to what is going on in the moment - maybe it also means avoiding the temptation to wish that the “here and now” could be extended.
What do I mean by that?
As I mentioned above, there are more and more really lovely moments these days - and maybe it’s the awareness of time passing or a pathological need to feel like the last 19 months were “worth it”, but I find myself wanting to bottle them. To take a screenshot. To preserve the (sometimes fleeting) whispers of joy and serenity for posterity. For example, when Smol T pointed at their vest at bedtime yesterday and said “jama!” out of nowhere…or when Smol J gave Smol T their leftover pasta at teatime…or when they spent hours (minutes) the other evening looking out of the window labelling everything that drove past as either “gar” or “lowwy”…or or or…I could go on (which is a fact to be celebrated in its own right!)
But perhaps the best example is that Smol T in particular has taken to asking for (demanding) “gudoo” (cuddles). I didn’t know love could be this visceral and I’m absolutely certain that being willfully and aggressively cuddled by my own offspring is better than any mind-altering drug I could possibly want to take. So, I want to bottle that feeling - of course I do. Especially because there will come a time when they will hardly cuddle me at all. BUT, and here’s the biggie, I want to recognise the existence of that future without allowing it to impinge on my present. I.e. it’s more important for me to enjoy the last few seconds of the cuddle than to spend them hoping they turn into a few more. I certainly don’t want to taint the memory of these beautiful moments by clinging onto the sadness that is left when they are gone.
To circle back to Sarah’s poem, I think the thing is this. I will be sad at the passing of time - I already am (sometimes). I think this is natural, healthy even. What I have realised I want to avoid, though, is two-fold: 1) Holding onto that sadness in order to warn others of its imminent existence in their lives and 2) Spending precious time wishing the good moments would last longer instead of actually enjoying them.
It’s a half finished reflection, but I hope it makes some kind of sense.
xx