Sunday, March 31, 2013




"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2013." Che and Fidel.

Cohen: Safe in the loving arms of Dada
Emerson: She runs with her hands in yours, she climbs - everything, she claps and laughs with delight, she hides and seeks, she falls asleep in my arms each night.

Four year old boys! The frustration! Those who have them, and those who have had them, I'm sure you understand. As beautiful and as heart melting as they can be, they also bring 'frustration' to a whole new level. My beautiful boy has a strong will that will serve him well throughout his life, though it may well send me grey in the meantime. How fussy an eater he is, preferring to go to bed hungry and wait for breakfast, than eat anything other than sausages and potatoes for dinner. He makes up songs with made up words and sings them louder and louder when adults are on the phone. Then pretends he can't hear you when you ask him to stop. We have to cajole him in to, and then back out of, the bath. Shall I go on?

And he is four. And it is probably (hopefully) all normal. And frustrating. 

Prior to becoming a mother I could never have imagined the frustration. I knew it would be hard work, I knew I would fall in love, I knew I would be tired. But I didn't know that these little people, who I would do anything for, I might occasionally wish to sell on eBay. (Of course I wouldn't. Not after a 36 hour labor and a c-section.:) I don't think it makes me a bad mother to admit that I get frustrated though. Tell me I'm not alone?
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