As a person I am instinctively, or perhaps habitually, mean to myself. My inner voice isn’t soothing and encouraging, it is harsh, cruel and critical.
Maybe it is inevitable then that as a mother, I am pulled subconsciously towards focusing on the things I don’t do well, on the things I could undoubtedly do better.
Tonight, in my in-laws’ garden, I was given a gift.
” Come play with me on the trampoline Mummy”.
My two and a half year old sought me out to play with her. Me. She talks in full and sophisticated sentences. She is curious and smart. After some time bouncing and chasing each other she says “I’m a bit tired Mummy. Let’s sit down and have a little rest”.
She snuggles into me, puts her hand on my leg, taps it gently and says simply “We’re still best friends”.
As we sit there in a wonderful, comfortable, contented silence, I also sit with the unfamiliar feeling of doing something so incredibly right.
We run and jump some more, sharing fun and each other’s company, then we lie down in the middle of the trampoline, and rest some more.
“Look at the clouds,” I say, pointing, “Aren’t they moving fast?”.
“That’s not fast Mummy,” she replies, “they’re moving slow”.
I wonder at our different perceptions of time and speed.
We turn sycamore seeds into helicopters, then chase each other some more, and as I listen to her delightful squeals, I wonder how long it will be before she thinks clouds move quickly too.