Every year on this day I celebrate becoming a mum for the first time … oh … and it being my first born’s birthday …
I’ve been a bit of a wonky mum over the years. I’m not looking for reassurance, I’m just saying it how it was.
I didn’t take to it like a duck to water. It had to grow on me. I also spent a lot of time pretending I had everything under control when I was actually a bit lost … as a mother … as a woman … as a wife.
Sometimes I worry that I got so lost that it affected my kids. The eldest is so introverted and the youngest is so particular.
But maybe they’d have turned out that way, regardless of me losing my life compass.
But back to today being a celebration … As I’ve regularly noted on my blog, I spent many, many years concocting my first child in my head.
She had red hair (like me), loved eating exotic foods (like me) and was called Ruby, after my great grandmother.
Now, there are many things you CAN plan in this life, but babies are generally wild cards.
Yet, somehow, the heavens sent exactly what I requested. Well, at least until the teen hormones kicked in …
My eldest child still has red hair, but wants to dye it every other colour; will still eat exotic foods, but has requested ham and pineapple pizza for dinner tonight; and isn’t called Ruby any more, after a name change earlier this year.
(To be honest, that was a bit of a rocky one. But I’m slowly getting the hang of it.)
Some things haven’t changed over the years – my eldest is still quirky and kind, a little too fond of late nights, totally vague and completely hopeless at being tidy.
The life ambitions have swung in a wildly different direction, from vet to tattoo artist. The clothes are black and studded and ripped and safety-pinned. The hair is self-shorn with clippers. The head is constantly buried in The Sims.
The face, when it occasionally looks up, is beautiful.
This is what my beloved first child looked like in my belly (I scared people at the beach) …
And this is what my beloved first child looked like when all 4.3kg of her was hauled out of me …
My eldest was what they describe as “above the 97th percentile” in the “Blue Book” and has stayed that way ever since, now towering above 5ft 5in me.
There’s not a lot of chitter chat. But, as my grandmother used to say (about me): still waters run deep.
It’s funny because when she was born you couldn’t shut her up. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
I wrote a blog about those powerful lungs a few years back, called You’re A Scream. It included this vignette:
Sprog 1 wailed in the hospital (check out my perplexed face) …
She wailed in our lounge room …
She wailed in our dining room …
She particularly enjoyed wailing in her bedroom.
It was a very noisy early journey. And now we are here, two years into the silent teens.
Who knows what the rest of the teen years will hold? I’m hoping lots of love and plenty of happy moments among the occasionally angsty ones.
And I can’t wait to have a birthday hug tonight.
Song of the day: Tori Amos “Cornflake Girl”