Milestones

                                     

 My child's birthdays are special, of course they are. In anticipation, while child is dropping hints about favourite toys, reminding me how well school is going, and asking for cakes that look like mermaids/cats/princesses/unicorns/whatever else, I always go back to the last days of pregnancy. I always remember the due date, two weeks before the birthday, the anticipation of the day, the feeling of 'what now?'  when it became obvious that nothing will happen. I remember the heaviness and how impossible it was to sleep properly. I remember tiredness, wishing for a few hours without discomfort, just to dose off and sleep properly, deeply. Without waking up for every turn. Without the little legs stretching against my ribcage. Without the tip of my sternum seeming very much out of place.

As I marvel about how my child is growing, I remember the endless time in the hospital, where we had to go for a check up to make sure that we can wait for the labour to start. Just a quick check up, the midwife said. Right. There is not such thing as quick hospital visit, not in an average NHS hospital. I always remember how tired I was getting and the decision to get induced was mainly out of concern that I wouldn't have any energy left in the end. Which I hadn't.

The day before the birthday, when child's anticipation is at the highest (presents!!!), I always think back about the stay at the hospital and the fun that is induction... And I get flashbacks of the endless, painful process of getting that child out. And how grumpy that child looked, when she finally emerged and landed on my stomach. And how I didn't get to sleep again, even though labour was done, but I was looking after a little human that didn't rest inside me anymore....

I look at my child, the way she plays and the way she is and think about my own childhood, so different and faraway. This is a different world. My child is an online native and prefers to watch people on You Tube playing with dolls from actual playing, whereas I spent hours inventing stories and acting them out with toys and dolls. Lots of things that I passed on seem irrelevant. Kids now have different language. I also remember how much more independent we were, thrown into the world, fending for ourselves, running wild (and occasionally feral).

In many ways, we are similar, but childhood now and then is a different experience. My child is more protected and supervised, hardly ever really alone, but her world doesn't seem to be more safe. It was simpler for my parents to explain 'stranger danger', when they could only be encountered in real life.

I am more open and chilled around my child, different than my parents, but at times, I still glimpse them and their reactions in me. But I am bringing up my child in a very different environment and have to adapt, which helps when I want to do things differently - I have a reason and an excuse (times have changed, mother). But with each year, I see how much closer I am to having a teenager, and the jungle that we will encounter then.

My child sees me writing and assumes that it is what I do. More than that, I am a constant, somebody who is always there and who always puts her first. Somehow, she became a constant in my life, too. No matter the differences, she is a little copy of me from years ago, but with a very different outlook and future. Being a parent is a very special thing.