My reason for everything

It's easy to talk about the hard parts of our lives, the struggles we go through in raising our children, the tantrums and financial worries and the endless burden of guilt.  It's almost unfashionable to say we had a good night's sleep, or are getting on really well with our other halves right now, or enjoy being a stay at home mum or love having a job that involves getting dressed and leaving the house every day.  

Don't get me wrong, I can understand why.  It can be perceived as being a bit smug if we talk too much about how wonderful things are, and there's a level of bonding that comes from discussing our emotional war wounds.  Playing the "Bet my husband is messier than yours" game or playfully competing over whose washing machine is switched on the most is much more likely to win friends than waxing lyrical about how perfect your life is, which can quickly escalate into a dangerous contest of one-upmanship that results in snide comments and hurt feelings all round.  Plus, as someone who likes to write and usually wants to make people laugh, I can't deny that the miniature disasters of everyday life hold far more humour than a constant recounting of all the reasons that life is great, aren't you jealous of me, blah blah blah.

Yet sometimes, it's important to just focus on the positives, revel in the wonder of what we're doing as we bring up these little people who are hell-bent on causing chaos.  I don't say it as often as I should, but I could say it a million times a minute and it wouldn't be enough.  I'm the luckiest woman in the world to have the privilege of life with my son.  Every day of his life is a sheet of paper off this extraordinary game of "pass the parcel", and every day I see another tantalising glimpse of the incredible gift that lies beneath the layers of his developing accomplishments.  He brings sheer, absolute, undiluted joy to my soul and renews my energy even as his uncompromising sense of his own truth threatens to eclipse and overwhelm my weak morning-time composure. 

Personality-wise, we're starting to see the person emerge from the babyish appearance.  He's funny, in a way I didn't know people could be without language.  In fact, he is side-splittingly hilarious; bringing tears of laughter to our eyes and the sharp pain of overwhelming love to our hearts on a daily, hourly basis.  His affection is a goal we pursue every minute of every day and his attention is the sun on frozen limbs.  His new-found opinions, as critical to him as oxygen, are unshakeable and forceful, and when he loves, he does so with every drop of energy his miniature little body holds.

Mid-tantrum, he is as majestic as he is woeful; as ridiculous as he is vulnerable, helpless against the weight and force of his own emotions.  He comes back to earth after these episodes a briefly wiser, weakened baby, ready to accept the circle of arms and love to which he was welcome all along.  In rest he is, quite simply, beautiful, to the point where eating my own kneecap seems easier than tearing my eyes away from his flawless face, eyelashes curving peacefully down to peach-skin cheeks; tiny, perfect teeth; ears a masterpiece of curves; plump baby lips that invite kissing over and over and over again.  His hands, so small, hold potential and my heart with the same fierce grasp that belies his tiny size when clutching his toys.  The chubby part above his toes that makes buying shoes so difficult makes not nibbling those delicious digits impossible.  He is, head to toe, a tour de force, the achievement I'm most proud of and my life's work made flesh.