So it would appear that I am the mother of an eight year old as of yesterday as Thing One celebrated his eighth birthday. Quite where these eight years have gone is somewhat of a mystery and yet I managed to squeeze in two house moves and another two pregnancies and a miscarriage in that time which makes me sound rather busy, very unlike me.
By journal rights I should dedicate this entry to my beloved big little dude and bore you all shitless with tales of the last eight years and exercise your scrolling finger with copious amounts of photographs that would make any womb purr of him as a baby and toddler, you know before they turn into pesky children back when they were jolly well cute and far easier to carry.
Alas you are spared due to having no access to photographs of his babyhood on my phone. I will however return, so think of this as a page holder for Thing One's entry.
I do often feel considerably guilty that through being the eldest of three we often forget that he is still only wee himself and possibly expect far too much of him and understand far too little. He is our beloved prototype. Granted he's also a little sod, a tremendously advanced sanity assassin who drives us to the very brink, daily. Yet I wouldn't change him for the world. He is perfectly, him. He is bloody hard work yet I suspect I am rather hard work myself.
It's okay. You can put the bucket away now.
How the fuck I have survived eight years of motherhood with considerably little alcohol is quite frankly beyond me.
I feel beastly old and tired yet It's more then worth it.
Maybe when the teenage years strike I'll be an alcoholic... or a dribbling incoherent mess. I don't much like teenagers. They give me an awful case of the fears.