On the third day of swim lessons, Elliot volunteered to go first, a drastic change from days one and two where he begged emphatically to let him do each technique last, only after seeing that each kid before him didn’t instantly die when they hit the water. He has always been the cautious child, the one who didn’t climb out of the crib or onto anything precarious unless first making sure it wasn’t a trap. He never got his legs caught in the bars of the crib or even got upset when told to move along if he was, say, taking stuff out of a cabinet. Cautious and easy going. He has had his moments, of course, and he’s a ball of excited energy and endless questions now, but he was an easy kid.

Isaac runs full force into things and wonders why it hurts. He tries to stand up in the wagon and tempt balance/fate.  He takes it personally when I take away an inappropriate object, so much so that he leans his head forward all the way to the floor as if saying, “Oh my God, woman, you have ruined my very life!” It is such a pathetic display to see his big lip protrude and then his forehead crease and finally the wail of despair when I remove him from the pile of now mutilated cotton balls in the bathroom and shut the door. He never questioned the pool, tried to swim right away from me. And yet, he hates when I leave from daycare.

These two are so incredibly different and I marvel at all the ways in which I notice it. To no one else does this rally such emotions but whenever I see such a distinct difference, I mark it in my head, mentally noting to save that for later, someday thinking I might need that information. With the scare we had last night with the unknown lump on Elliot’s head, I got to thinking about so  much. I get on Elliot for his behaviour and some days I wish away the two hours in the evening I even spend with Isaac, either because of exhaustion from my day or my inability to cope with his fussiness. And none of that matters. Just thinking that Elliot could have had something more serious made me realize how deep my love is for him and how much he means to me. I’m not – I don’t consider anyway – a very overbearing or intrusive mother. In some ways, I like being hands-off so that they are free to learn and grow in their own ways, with their own decisions. Sometimes being that way makes me feel a little distanced from them emotionally. I think last night made me think about how I should find a balance.

Because I do love them, so much.  They are so precious (as hokey as that sounds) and dear and hold the utmost potential. It blows my mind how much they can do and how young they still are.  No matter how depressing I think life is, how much of a failure I am because after so so many job applications, I still haven’t heard anything, my kids never fail to make me laugh and feel so very full of, well, everything.