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August 28, 2019

Catherine Cameron writes a letter to her two year old. 

 

To my charismatic daughter - 

Today, you are two. 

This year has brought even more mess, cuddles, bubbles in the bath, and toy cars scattered throughout the house.

Your developing quirks continue to keep us on our toes, inviting laughter into every corner of our lives. I am so proud of how confidently you share your true colours with everyone you meet. And, so in awe at how quickly these colours brighten as your individuality blossoms. 

Approaching two, your frustrations have increased at having to shape your world with the requisites of society. I have tried my best to explain why we do things the way we do. However, I must be honest, you have made me question these very things myself. So set in my own ways, I often envy the way you see the world, void of rules, constraints and restrictions.

Every day, you give me thanks. You thank me for your tenth potato stick by using your words. You thank me for drinking your imaginary tea by giving me your favourite cup. Planting your bottom in my lap and begging me to sing you Twinkle twinkle one more time is even gratuitous, in making me feel so very wanted. 

Needed.

Loved.

Now, my turn to thank you.

Although you so easily breezed into your new routine at day care; the transition I faced in returning to work saw my postpartum anxiety struggles come roaring to the surface. But this time, my armour was thicker. I credit the strength I used to walk away from my forever job to the resilience you have given me as your mother. 

A resilience that I am so proud to wear.

Thank you for forcing me to relinquish control and appreciate the importance of being present. My greatest memories of time spent with you are ones of spontaneity. You and I under a tree amidst falling rain holds so much more meaning in my life than the materialistic notions that I had given so much value to, before you.

Now, before I go, a few apologies. 

I am sorry for letting you see me cry. It must be so confusing to see your rock crumble at times, but being a Mummy isn’t easy. In my world grown-ups are often made to feel as though they need to hide their tears. But this isn’t the case. I can only hope you grow up knowing that all of your feelings deserve validity, even the not so nice ones. 

I am sorry for mistaking your frustrations for misbehaviour. I am learning more and more about your need to test boundaries in order to understand them, and your inability to regulate your emotions. I can’t promise I will always say or do the right things, but know whenever you are feeling vulnerable, you are always safe with me. 

Finally, I am sorry for letting the mundane things get in the way. Time with you is so much more precious than staying on top of household chores. And so, with this, I ask you, please continue to chase me around the house while I vacuum, begging me to play. 

I am all too aware that one day that begging will no longer be there, as you grow too old for play with mummy.

But what will always be there, is my love for you. 

My ever-changing, ever-growing, ever-constant, maternal love.

A kind of love that drives me up the wall, shakes me to the core, and continues to amaze me.

You, continue to amaze me.

Mummy.


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