There are lots of things that mothers worry about.
From whether the kids are healthy to whether their shoes are comfortable.
Worrying started the minute you fell pregnant, and I can’t image it ever allays. But your fears transform don’t they as your children grow?
My current fear is a little more obscure, a little more imprecise than shoes or illness. It’s a fear that I hope is misguided, but yet I can’t quite seem to escape its omnipotence.
I worry that this is it. That this is as good as it is going to get. I worry that I have reached the golden years and that the slide from here is just downhill.
My kids are in those middle ages of childhood.
The ages where they still believe in Santa and that a kiss from mum will fix a scraped knee. They haven’t yet discovered sexting and sulking and slammed shut doors and they are finally getting to the age where they put on their shoes.
They rush out of their classrooms eager to see me and engulf me in their arms. They chatter about their days and their biggest concern is whats for afternoon teas.
While it’s not yet easy it is definitely easier but I am scared that it’s just a brief hiatus before the real hard work begins again.
At ages eight and six and four my three kids are finally hitting the strides of childhood.
The baby stage is far behind us. The constant relentless grind of a newborn.
The toddler days are gone – as delightful as they are with their waddling bodies and dribbly smiles the tantrums and tears of over tiredness are in the past only occasionally rearing when my four-year old pushes herself too far.