It was half term here last week. And nostalgia and melancholy hit me hard at the beginning of the week as I watched my big girl being…well, big. Before we could even get dressed Monday morning I found myself packing away 6 pairs of trousers that were suddenly too small on her willowy frame.
And I lost it.
Like big, ugly crying kind of lost it.
In the glow of the pregnancy with Kirby, I pictured our new life as a family of four. How he (the baby) would slot into family life with ease. How we’d dote on him, yes, but not forget our big girl. How we’d make sure we’d still give her plenty of attention. How we’d divide our time between them as fairly as possibly. How Aoife and I would have mama and me dates most weekends, because I was not going to let this new child take away the precious relationship I’d carefully built with my four year old. My first born. The girl who taught me the strength of mama love, and the lengths I’d go to to make sure my child was okay.
But I forgot about school.
School changes things.
That first day, I dropped off a child, and got back a big girl. She grows up so much behind those school gates, and I’m not a part of it. Sure, she’ll tell me all about it in that endless chatter thing she does that leaves me breathless just listening to it, and the teacher tries to fill me in on the rest, but I miss stuff. Subtle things. And the girl I get to enjoy in the school holidays is different from the one I hugged good bye at the start of term. Not bad different. Just different. A little bit more grown up and independent. And it catches me off guard every time.
We needed some time alone. Pronto. We needed girly time to do our nails and chat and laugh, time to play dress up and games and tickle each other so hard we could hardly breathe. And we most definitely needed time to get blissed out on Abba and art…