Dear children

Dear children,

May the times I am serene outweigh the times I get stressed.

I pray that you remember my patience and sense of humour more than my melodramatic huff.

May the silly power struggles over selective eating and my disproportionate anxiety over your bordering on bizarre diet pale next to memories of us peeling carrots together, “painting” chicken and chowing down on hearty roasts together.

I hope you’ll remember our snuggles on the sofa more than our rushing around to get anywhere vaguely on time.

I do hate that you now ask “Are we late?” almost as a reflex.

I want you to look back and see a history populated with books we read together, rather than too many “Let me finish this first” moments.

I would really rather you remember the places we go when we get there, over the unrepeatable words I mutter when I’m lost or finding the new skill of driving a bit too much.

I’d love it if, in the balance of things, you see more paintings that were enjoyed and less worry over messes accidentally made.

I want you to know that you had a mother who was present.

I want to know that I was.

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