I love my children dearly. They are my reason for living and are absolutely the best thing that ever happened to me. But some days. Oh Jesus, some days!
The fifteen-year old glowers at me with beady eyes from behind an asymmetrical fringe that is daily ironed into submission. He throws a surly grunt in lieu of response to every question I ask him or a snarled ‘why?’ is the first answer to any request to do something, then a snort and a sneer as he slouches away if I raise my voice or firm the tone to re-enforce the order. His whole being resents me, resents the fact that he is fifteen and I for some peculiar reason think I have any influence over him whatsoever (I don’t by the way, I am merely keeping up the pretence for as long as possible).
Then there is my beloved ‘baby’. Nine going on ninety-nine, definitely on his fourth or fifth pass through of life and at that superior stage. You know, where nobody knows anything but him, nobody understands anything and everyone is against him. My ‘baby’ is long gone and now he will move from irritating pre-pubescence into testosterone fuelled adolescence and hopefully come out reasonably whole on the other side.
I miss my babies. I miss their kisses and cuddles, their sitting on my knee and having me read stories; that helpless childish giggling when we played ‘peep’. The sheer joy in their faces when I woke them from a sleep as they thrashed their legs about in excitement that they were alive, and best of all they were with me. The nine year old still throws the odd hug my way but the fifteen year old rarely touches me. I know he loves me. I hope he loves me. I drive him mad as he does me but the channels of communication are still open and long may that continue. When this teenager meets his father outside of the house, perhaps on the road or down the town they will shoulder each other and grunt - old ram, young ram. It is their expression of affection.
Occasionally, very, very occasionally in excitement or joy the older son will throw his arms about me and hug and I wonder at his strong arms and broad shoulders. Or the younger son will say something still childishly funny and innocent and I will smile. How did I produce these brave and beautiful young men? I only wanted baby boys! I started out to give out about them, my blog today was to be an amusing rant about life as a middle-aged female stranded in a household of males and I’ve gone all soft on them. I can’t help it- my babies!! Always – my babies.