My love
My love for my children isn’t always what everyone else sees.
It’s not just in the kisses and hugs I take photos of and share.
It’s not just in the way I talk about them with everyone who will listen.
It’s not just in the way I tell their father how much I love them.
It’s so much more than that.
It’s in the way I wake up tired from feeding all night, mending the broken cracks of sleep with cuddles, or the days of not stopping. Sometimes all of it.
It’s in the way I carry on regardless.
It’s in the clothes I wash, the meals I prepare and the appointments I remember to organise for them. And it’s in the never-ending lists that rotate in my head and the guilt I feel for forgetting one tiny thing.
It’s in the mundane load.
It’s in the way I try to take a deep breath and smile through the harder moments, rather than what at times can feel easier, and the way I say sorry and move on when I need to, rather than hold onto it and let it dictate our day.
It’s in the way I try.
It’s in the way I worry about them, overthink for them, and try to filter out worse-case scenarios in my head. It’s trying to rationalise my anxieties in the face of a love so deep it can be frightening.
It’s in the way I care.
It’s in the way I hold them when I’m struggling to hold myself together, and move with them when all I want to do is sit. The way I put them first, knowing my seconds may not come today.
It’s in the way I show up.
My love for my children isn’t always just what everyone else sees.
It’s in the moments hardly anyone gets to witness.
It’s in the memories only we will keep.
My love for my children is in every single thing I do.
And that’s a big love,
Because it’s in the way I do so much.