Reflections on Motherhood

I promised not to make this a mummy blog, however, I couldn’t resist the urge to pen a few thoughts as I approach my daughter’s first birthday.

Yes, I’m still getting used to referring to her as my daughter.

Congratulations to me for surviving this first year. Yay me for not putting her out for kerbside collection or handing her over for adoption until she’s finished teething. Go me for not having to take her to emergency because she’s injured herself on something I really should have paid more attention to (don’t get me wrong, there have been several close calls… but we haven’t yet actually sustained any injury).

Apparently, you’re not supposed to chain a child outside when they wee on the carpet. (This should really be written in some sort of manual…)

Stuff you think is unbreakable… isn’t.

My house permanently looks like a cyclone has hit it. I can’t find anything moments after setting the item down. Once, she pushed my phone under the lounge and I spent the morning rearranging the lounge room in order to retrieve it.

I’m missing the O key on my laptop because there was toast crumbs underneath it, and the catch broke when I tried to clean underneath it.

She’s very clever. She used the dog to climb on and off the lounge (dog didn’t usually mind, which is weird). She can now open sliding doors, including the one to the ensuite, resulting in visits to daddy in the shower.

She’s also recently discovered that falling off the bed isn’t the only way to get down; in fact, you don’t even need the dog to climb on!

Motherhood means never going to the toilet alone. It means there’s a little person climbing on you when you’re trying to get dressed (“Yes boss, I was late for work. Mini-me was climbing on my back, up my leg and “helping” me put on my socks.”) It means cupboard doors are opened, contents thrown askew (or placed in mouth), and that hairclip you’d thought long gone was actually right up the back behind that bottle of perfume you last used in 2010. Everything takes up more time because I’m either wandering off to rescue her from the garage (we really do need latches on those sliding doors…) or I’m madly back-spacing from her bashing on the keyboard.

Nothing is mine anymore. When she was newly born, the lyrics to ‘Everything I Do (I Do It For You)’ ran through my head constantly. Now, it’s still pretty much the same. The mug of Milo is now pulled from my hands because I’m supposed to share (God help me if I try to “share” her food!). I’m slowly transitioning into a life of no unhealthy food when she’s around. The other day, I gave her a sushi roll because a) I didn’t want the remaining 5 chicken nuggets when she’d only eat one and b) sushi is easy to hold. She actually didn’t mind the sushi roll, but she was definitely more interested in my mum’s fried rice plate.

I’m learning that sticky tape repairs most things, and for the things it doesn’t, well, did I really need them anyway?

As I look now into her Milo-covered face from the dregs I left in the mug, I see her smile, sing, and call me Dadda. I’ve temporarily forgotten the times I’ve screamed at her to shut up, the sleep I’ve missed, the days I wished I’d never had her, and it all seems OK.