12/52

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

Cohen: Four year olds. They have the ability to make you laugh while simultaneously throwing your hands in the air in frustration. Despite excitedly wearing his new costume before his friends pirate party, he refused to wear it to the party, later asking if we could go to another party so he could now wear the costume...

Emerson: She has learnt to climb. Lounge, chairs, bed, bedside tables. She is quite pleased with her new found skill and practices it diligently, despite the accompanying bruises.

This week has had it's share of difficulties, including four hours at the hospital in eye casualty. It's been an emotional week I will admit. But I am blessed to have dear family and friends. From phone calls and messages, frozen meals and potted plants, baby sitting and driving, others have given so much of their time and their selves since the operations. Never before as an adult have I felt quite so dependent or so loved. I'm not sure how to adequately thank them, my beautiful husband and sister especially.

Mothering is made more difficult when you are not well. Pain amplifies normal everyday frustrations. Patience is the first casualty. Cabin fever is rife after two weeks, for all three of us. Compounded by two months of chaos. Each day that I have felt a little better and taken on a little more again, I have felt a little more the weight of all I have yet to catch up on. It is easy to feel overwhelmed, even if this to-do list is partly of my own devising. Each day I have been reminding myself to just stop and play with my children. To listen. Put myself in their shoes. Let them lead. Breathe them in. Watch them play. Despite the trying times, there are so many precious memories from this period that I want to hold tight to.

- the way Cohen hides each time he hears a car arrive, or a knock at the door, then giggles and yells surprise!

- his earnest face as he informed me this week at the library that, "This is my favourite place in the whole world."
- Emerson in the stage before walking, pushing the yellow wooden cart I learnt to walk with, up and down the hallway, before climbing inside of it and waiting for someone to push her

- laying in bed beside Cohen at bedtime and being asked to stay forever

- being told he loves me "thissss much!" as he flings his arms out wide and the way he waits for me to do the same.The way he squeals and giggles, half in delight and half in mock fear, if I pretend I only love his "this much," my hands only a little apart 

- dramatic baby kisses, complete with "mwah!" sound effects and bright eyes
- the contented sigh Emerson gives as she feeds to sleep

- his first taste of school this week at a Prep morning play, where next years Preppies visit the classrooms and meet the teachers. As he sat at the tables with the other children I really could not deny that he is growing up

Here's to a week filled with simple joys and the ability to recognise them.

These Moments

Feeding and rocking Emerson to sleep reminds me of Cohen at the same age, more than any other daily ritual. It seems not so distant a time that it was Cohen in my arms. The weight of his tiny body against mine, his blue eyes fluttering as he swam in that liminal moment. One perfect ear visible. A patch of hair rubbed smooth on the back of his head, resting against my arm. Dried milk on his cheek.

Now, nearing four, he pretends to nap as I rock Emerson. I assume he thinks I can't hear the pat of his socks on the floor boards and the click and knock of Duplo from behind his closed door. His brown eyes surely twinkling with his perceived mischief. Meanwhile, Emerson swims in the same in between state, with the same blue eyes, that she may or may not yet keep. A crow's call forces her eyes open as she struggles against the tide.

Moments like these I try hard to stem the hum and chatter of my brain. Laying aside the mental to do lists, fleeting thoughts and anxieties. Simply trying to enjoy the moment. As if meditating on all that is Emerson. Ensuring that I hold on to this memory. Her eyelashes finally meet. I hold my breath as I lay her down. Backing out of the room for another glimpse.

Four months old

(Details: Ledge, Cat print, vase, Rabbit night light, cabled cushion, dress vintage, and tights thifted.)

You know those moments that you want to find a way to preserve? You know they won't last forever, you know that is part of what makes them special, but you want to capture them all the same? There is a moment each morning now, where both children join me in bed when they wake. First Emerson for a feed and a cuddle. Then Cohen, who crawls in between us; always the center of attention. We snuggle beneath the blankets. I stroke Cohen's hair. Cohen kisses Emerson's chubby rosey cheeks. Emerson's little hands reach out and grasp at the two of us. Sometimes catching at Cohen's nose, or a lock or my hair, or the edge of the blanket. She smiles, chirps and coos. Cohen laughs and chats. He says "love you Mama, this much" and holds his arms out as wide as he can.

And in that moment, before the day urges us out of bed, there is just the three of us and my heart is full of love and joy, no matter how tired I may be. These moments I want always to remember.

-

One, two and three months old.