Grief is a funny old thing. It can hit you when you least expect it, for little to no reason at all or the slightest memory reminds you of the hurt that is hiding away just below the surface. Today as I went about my normal day it hit me. Consumed me. All I could feel was grief, guilt, anger, sadness and disappointment. As I went about my day my only thought was trying to stop the tears from flowing.
Before I became a mum I was under the impression that the fun stuff was the big days out, the celebrations or even the playing you get to do in the garden or the games of tickle and the laughter from the unbridled joy of childhood. Yet when I actually became a mum those 5 years ago, I realised that actually it was the smallest of moments that were the best. Bathtime and bedtime were one of my most favourite parts of any day. Although to start with her allergies and eczema meant Eva wasn’t always a massive bath fan as soon as she was out, wrapped up in a towel in that oh so cute way that makes any child look angelic, cuddled and warm in my arms, she was happy, content, safe. She has always loved books and from a very early age we would snuggle together and read. I remember it like it was yesterday. The way I would sit on the chair in the bay window of our room and kiss her on the head. Take in that intense smell that now is just a distant memory and smile at the way her tired eyes would droop as she fought to keep them open for the last book.
Two weeks ago today I had a tonsillectomy, and I know it seems strange to refer to an operation as “me time” but you see I am not very good at the whole me time thing. I am so aware of how days, weeks and years fly by with young children that I find myself just wanting to make the most of it, to make their world a perfect place and try to soak up every moment, enjoy it and not miss a single second.