Sometimes, when I’m sitting downstairs in the evening, I forget. I forget that upstairs in his room sleeps a sweet little boy who belongs to me. I forget the stresses of the day; the number of times I’ve been close to snapping because he just won’t do as he’s told. I forget the mountains of food I’ve had to clean up because it’s fun to throw. I forget the sigh of relief when it’s finally nap time.
I forget that I’m Mummy, and I go back to being Me. I lose myself in memories of past adventures and past dreams, past plans and past goals. I plan my next steps for the future; I think about that place I want to visit, that thing I want to do. But there always seems to be something missing.
And then I hear a stirring upstairs or look down at the toys on the floor, and I remember. I remember that I’m blessed, that I have someone else to live and plan for. I remember that I’m Mummy, and that makes me smile.
Sometimes, I forget.
Sometimes I forget that I can be both Mummy and Me.