For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a mother.
If birthing and breastfeeding were an Olympic sport I would have had gold medals. I was bloody great on both counts … even if I do say so myself.
I spent the first few months of the 5 year old’s life thinking that motherhood was easy … apart from the sleep deprivation. I was lulled into a false sense of security because motherhood seems to have got harder along the way. Harder but far more interesting. Having lost my own mother when I was 9 I have no example to follow, I’m making it up as I go along.
My parenting skills can, on occasion, be described as haphazard but I’d like to think that when they’re older they’ll look back on their formative years and realise that I did the best I could. We have fun, A LOT of cuddles, blurts and tickles. They are both surrounded by love.
The first picture was taken in a side street in Venice, the second on our campsite. On holiday they walked around like this a lot. Moments like this make me realise that I’m not so bad after all.
Maybe, sometimes, haphazard making it up mothering works.