Every now and again it hits me that I have a six year old. That he’s only six. I’m so busy treating him like a mini-adult and regiment every aspect of his life, that I often forget he’s only a little boy.
Every now and again I get this feeling – this momswoon thing – of intense love and admiration for what I made, accidentally. (And yes, I purposefully use the word ‘accidentally’ and ‘mistake’ when thinking about my Kid. He was definitely an accident and definitely a mistake, but a beautiful one. One I don’t regret in the least.)
It’s hard not to take it all too seriously, this being a parent thing. It’s far too easy to forget that he’s only going to be a child for a short while, and that I should let him enjoy it. I’m always on his case to pick up his toys, stop messing juice on the couch, dry his feet before he comes inside from swimming and getting annoyed at his constant questions.
I forget that children only learn through asking questions, and that he’s not trying to purposefully irritate me – he’s just exercising his curiosity. That forgetting to make his bed is simply because he was too busy having fun doing something else. That yelling at the top of his lungs isn’t intended to wake his sleeping baby brother, it’s just an expression of his excitement or happiness in that moment. Just a vocalisation of fun.
Fun. That’s the whole point of being a child, isn’t it? Learning while having fun. Growing while having fun. It’s so easy to get caught up in being an adult and a parent, that you forget that important part of life. Fun. There’s no time for that, in between commuting and making dinner, packing lunches and sitting in meetings. There’s barely even time for enough sleep, let alone fun.
That’s got to change, and the only one who can make it happen is me. I need to find my fun again. I need to make time for fun. Make time for my family. I will soon be in the process of making this happen. All I want is some time. Time to enjoy this, before it’s grown up and moved out of my house.