He’s what keeps me grounded. He’s my logic, my reason and my motivation. He’s the constant smiling-laughing-talking-kissing reminder of why I do what I do. His are the blue eyes of unquestioning trust. Of love and necessity and the absolutely incredible experience that is the youremymotherandtheresnooneelseintheworldilovemorethanyou kind of love that is having a son.
He’s the one who reminds me, every day, of what is and what isn’t important. Love. Laughter. Play-doh and painting. Blowing bubbles and making a mess. Being a child. These things are important. Everything else? Secondary in relevance and importance.
He’s the one who reminds me, every day, how important time is. More so than money. He’s the one that reminds me that sometimes time is the most precious gift you can give anyone. Your time and attention. He’s the one who reminds me that I don’t have as much time as I used to, and therefore that it’s important to choose who I spend my limited time with, wisely. He’s the one that reminds me not to tolerate bullshit.
He’s the reason behind all of my decisions. He’s the reason that I’m no longer self-centred (as much as I used to be). He’s the one that’s taught me when to let go, and when to hold on. He’s taught me (more) patience than I had before, and he’s taught me the importance of persistence.
Isn’t it funny. How there’s a lot more to parenting than you actually think, as a child. And that only once you have a child, do you realise how much you still have to grow, to be an adult, and that only a child can teach you these things?