for Josh

 

 

Motherhood is swell; swell in the sense of all consuming, continually pulsating; the constant reminder that this is not all about you anymore.  This may sound harsh to some but I'm keen to leave romanticised depictions of parenthood at the door. No one wants to read the mushy, glistening side of parenthood. Mush is divisive and alienating.  People are either happy for you (because they are going through the sunbeams and rainbow phase) or they are quietly plotting how to poison you and your entire family.

Having a baby is challenging and sometimes it can feel as if it has completely warped your life.  I think the biggest change, to me personally, as a person, who thinks personal things, is the ups and downs of my relationship that once felt like it was made out of marshmallows, personalised playlists and the voice of Jeff Buckley has now been relegated to a meandering but steady (ish) heap of those coloured plastic balls from a ball pit and practical wall fittings.  Not too shabby but not what either of us expected at this juncture.

I claim to be a feminist and so the thing I am still unable to reconcile with is being the main carer for our son and making sure he remains alive as well as being responsible for making sure we don't eat too much pasta, the house doesn't become infested with cockroaches and crucially that our once adored cat doesn't become too starved of attention that she feels the need to hurl herself under a passing Renault Megane.   The responsibility is all encompassing and it can be hard to breathe. 

Arguably since becoming a father, Josh has escaped  relatively unscathed.  He remains the same athletic build and weight, has the exact same social group, the same work pattern (ish) and gets to.. leave the house.. alone.  He can walk up and down steps without clutching a tiny wrist as this small person insists on navigating up the stairs,  facing forward, standing up. One tiny hand precariously holding the bannister as big brown eyes adventurously peep through the slats.  It's okay for Josh to comfortable zone off at work without feeling a familiar stab of guilt that you are neglecting your child for checking the newsfeed on Facebook.  If Josh did this at work he would risk a disapproving stare from the boss, perhaps a reminder that he is not to check it during work hours. I risk (at least in my head) fucking our kid up for life. 

Whilst I'm sweating over a washing up bowl filled with hot soapy liquid; he is sweating over a new, rigorous exercise regime.  Sometimes we are worlds apart and he feels beyond reach but then once our son is in bed, we resume our evening position on the sofa with my legs over his and his arm around me, we lean in together close and gaze at our phones whispering love sick incantations at the photos of this tiny but magnificent little boy called Baxter.   And the divide and difference is all but forgotten.