Lazy mornings, endless games, mostly with the tiniest of marbles that end up catapulted from one side of the room to the other or up and down or along stairs using the simplest man made contraptions from separate parts of unused toys. Races from sitting room to bedroom with regular shouts of 'red card' blurted out to mother, mostly ignored I might add. Breakfast and second breakfasts and third before we manage to find our way out of the front door, not before a few meltdowns, mostly mine urging three very easily distracted males out into the sunshine (if we're lucky) before she disappears. Fresh air, food, fighting mostly in that order and set to repeat with late afternoons for unwinding or being wound up depending on who and where and what. Cosy times in my bed with just one of them allowed for some time out with mama, nuzzling their nest of hair into my bosom reminding me of when I was a girl and did the same with my mum. How I loved how she would fuss with my face or hair whilst I picked up the faint smell of onions on her hands which bothered me enough to identify its source but not enough to risk her stopping her tender display. I wonder all the time what memories I am imprinting on these boys of mine? Apart from the softness of my 'big fat belly' which my littlest one likes to speak of regularly. On good days it makes me laugh as he jiggle jiggles it around, wrinkling his little nose up in deep laughter. On bad I scold him somewhat or show him a serious enough sadness in that way that only mothers can, in return he showers me with love. You know that deep kind, the kind that when you think of it out of the blue it gives you goose bumps.
Time spent admiring the youngest member of our family, my sweet nephew and the boys second boy cousin. Watching as his hair sprouts and waiting expectantly for the famous family curls, listening as he makes that special satisfied sound as he takes in each gulp of milk from his bottle, looking in disbelief at his ample delicious baby thighs that you just cant help but squeeze. Looking on with admiration seeing that eldest boy of mine tenderly playing with this little one of ours, pure joy. Catching my big sister literally pinching herself watching the scene unfold, reminding herself that this little one is hers and that she is a mama now and seeing her glow, literally glow.
Remembering the excitement as a child when days were unscheduled, unusual, when things for one reason or another didn't go to plan for your parents and knowing that the result meant staying an extra hour at your granny's house or travelling back home in the car in the dark instead of daylight or going to bed much later than usual, not having to have a shower or bath before bed or eating fast food. Funnily enough that's exactly what happened recently and my boys punched their fists in the air in celebration of mama's failure meaning a fish and chips lunch after all. Seeing these two boys excited at: having to catch the bus into the city, the video pieces in the gas hall gallery (particularly the one where the windows of an old building get smashed with stones, from the inside) and in particular at watching their daddy perform live music for the first time. The look of pride on my first borns face is one that I'll never forget, my heart exploded and I'll forever be picking up and admiring the pretty, pretty pieces of that I am sure!
Trips back to our favourite places because ... well because we still love them so. Time changes, weather changes, each of us going through our constant changes but somehow these cycles, these re-visits make time stand still and we cherish that! And when the sky stayed blue on our canalside picnic, we *'sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks to where the wild things are'. Once there, we smiled our biggest smiles and *'roared our terrible roars' and all was well with the world!
* Extract from Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak
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