Tell me about your children
Having children has always felt like a far off dream – it’s like watching the sea, you know? Some days it appears closer, and other days it feels as though the ground rushes out from underneath my feet, that the waves are dragging everything away from my grasping hands.
People have told me that it doesn’t have to be that way. I could be less fussy, less selective. There are plenty of loveless relationships, after all. I could be just another statistic. But God, the thought of that terrifies me. I grew up in loveless houses. I grew up hiding my brother under my bed, covering my ears at night, ducking under the bath water so that all I could hear was my own pounding heart. There is no way that I would bring a child into that kind of world.
And that I know for a fact.
No, the house that my child grows up in will be drenched in perpetual sunshine. I want my child to know that there is no sky that isn’t worth enjoying – that sun is for growing in, rain is for dancing in, snow is for jumping in. I want my child to fearlessly run through that house, skidding on the floors, loud whoops of laughter following them. I want them to grow up with grazed knees and muddy boots, covered in dog hair and reeking of adventures and discovery. I want my child to be utterly fearless, fuelled by the knowledge that they are so deeply, ludicrously loved. I want them to fall asleep with the ghost of a smile still on their lips. I want my child to live simply. And when the world lays down hardship and strife at their door, I want my child to know that they can handle it – whatever it is – because they have learnt that you don’t get to pick and choose in this world. But you do get to pick and choose how you take it.
Scar tissue, they say, is far stronger than the original skin. It is less pliable, it’s largely immovable.
Sometimes I think that I am more scar than girl.
Surely that makes me a better step to boost themselves off of, to see the world from.
People have told me that it doesn’t have to be that way. I could be less fussy, less selective. There are plenty of loveless relationships, after all. I could be just another statistic. But God, the thought of that terrifies me. I grew up in loveless houses. I grew up hiding my brother under my bed, covering my ears at night, ducking under the bath water so that all I could hear was my own pounding heart. There is no way that I would bring a child into that kind of world.
And that I know for a fact.
No, the house that my child grows up in will be drenched in perpetual sunshine. I want my child to know that there is no sky that isn’t worth enjoying – that sun is for growing in, rain is for dancing in, snow is for jumping in. I want my child to fearlessly run through that house, skidding on the floors, loud whoops of laughter following them. I want them to grow up with grazed knees and muddy boots, covered in dog hair and reeking of adventures and discovery. I want my child to be utterly fearless, fuelled by the knowledge that they are so deeply, ludicrously loved. I want them to fall asleep with the ghost of a smile still on their lips. I want my child to live simply. And when the world lays down hardship and strife at their door, I want my child to know that they can handle it – whatever it is – because they have learnt that you don’t get to pick and choose in this world. But you do get to pick and choose how you take it.
Scar tissue, they say, is far stronger than the original skin. It is less pliable, it’s largely immovable.
Sometimes I think that I am more scar than girl.
Surely that makes me a better step to boost themselves off of, to see the world from.
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