I remember being 'in the thick of motherhood', but I don’t really remember. My recollections are hazy, especially those from the early days of the toddler/newborn juggle. They’re a little clearer thinking back to the beginnings of life with three kids in 2017, but not by much.
Exhaustion, feeling absolutely touched out from breastfeeding around the clock, and tending to the needs of two other small people. Relentlessness. The days seemingly running into each other. Juggling (and dropping) all the balls, all the time. Exhaustion. (Did I mention that one already?)
These days are different to when I was mothering very small people. I now have an 11-year-old, eight-year-old, and five-year-old. I’ve officially become what I’ve termed a 'mother in the middle', the stage where your kids are no longer incessantly needy toddlers but aren’t yet fully functioning 'big kids'. And it’s kind of a weird place to be.
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There was a certain grief in knowing that one phase of motherhood was over. That there’d never be another milky newborn cuddled up on my chest. No more first steps or pudgy toddler hands holding onto my own. Mothering young children is an experience like no other and the end of that season was tough to contend with.
It also brought with it a whole lot of uncertainty. I KNEW babies and toddlers. They were a known quantity; I was always the one with a baby at the breast, toddler in a pram, and pre-schooler scooting off ahead. Playdates, vegemite sandwiches, and Peppa Pig on repeat.