There’s a notebook I’ve kept since my kids were babies, fuscia card Moleskin. It’s served over the last near-decade as a soft space for some of the meditation that is my motherhood. I say meditation because let’s be honest — there’s nothing quite like a child presenting you with worms from your garden, asking for more rice cakes, or needing their bottom wiped to bring you into the moment.
Little voices call my name — Mama…
wiggly cuddles anticipate
I try to greet myself as sweetly as I greet them
off and running, we begin again.
It’s the busiest, messiest, most loved notebook in my collection. No formal journal entries, rather a collection of moments I’ve captured in haste, sprinkled with some of their own drawings and mini love letters back to me. Dogeared pages, strawberry jam thumbprints, words scribbled with whatever crayon or pencil was within close reach. Questions, so many questions. I savour the memories that live here — glimpses and glimmers found between the rough edges and confounding love that accompanies the title of mom/mommy/mum/mama...
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