Sometimes in the still of the evening, when the cacophony of chatter and laughter from the day past has quietened to nothing, I worry what will be left of me once my children are grown.
Sometimes I worry I’ve given too much of myself away, kept nothing back for when they’re gone.
Where there was once a fiercely ambitious, size 10 go-getter, there’s now an out of shape, gooey-hearted blob of grey with no face or name, silently serving the role of ‘Mum.’
As I’m sure is the case for all parents, I’ve put everything of myself into the raising of my children. I’ve all but disappeared, swallowed up into the cheerful chaos of the past few years.
Those countless mornings when I’ve made do with a hastily ingested Penguin bar, washed down with lukewarm coffee, in order to devote myself to getting little ones to eat their porridge and fresh fruit…I forgot that I too have a body that needs nourishing food.
The afternoons bent over studious little heads, helping with homework, urging them on and reminding them of the importance of education….I forgot how my own education lies dormant, untapped and unused for now.
The sunny mornings I stand alone in the park watching on as my children chatter brightly to new friends….I forgot that I too need companionship.
All the rainy afternoons when the TV is instinctively switched on to CBeebies…I forgot how much I love a good crime drama.
All the busy days of fun when I walk straight to the children’s section of the library…I forgot how wonderful it feels to spend an entire day curled up with a good book.
I’ve given them all of me. Was it too much? Was it the wrong thing to do?
I recognise that a time will come in the near future when I’ll start to find pieces of me again. I’ll carve out more time to rediscover the things I love.
Heck, I might even find more time to blog and treat my lovely readers to well-written pieces rather than the hurried, poorly formed Facebook posts they’ve grown accustomed to.
I hope something of me is salvageable. I hope there’ll be something left.