Something entirely lovely happened last weekend, just when I wasn't expecting it at all.
It wasn't much– a pleasant but inconsequential event, I think, in most peoples lives, just as it used to be in mine.
We went out as a family.
If you're waiting for more, you'll be disappointed, because that's it, all there is to it. The three of us– my Chop, my Bump and I, we went to a big lively expensive kids concert on the weekend. No product placement in this post– but it was probably the kind of concert with ears. If you know what I mean.
The reason it was so lovely, such a big deal for me? Well. This is the first time it's happened. The first time the three of us– just my two children and myself– have been anywhere all by ourselves and not felt like a part of us was missing.
It felt like a family, complete.
We've been places and done things during the last twelve months or so that I know my children have adored, where they've had fun and been excited and see cool stuff and ate too much sugar and been spoiled rotten and all those good kind of things. But it's never felt quite right– which is understandable, but unpleasant none the less.
But last weekend, I didn't call in someone for support, a spare pair of hands to help me distract, manipulate and manhandle my two tiny people. Nor did I sit, distracted, running a litany in my head of “The last time we did this...”, or “He should be here watching this...” or even “If Tony were here, he’d say this...”.
I didn't even once blink back tears, or sneak into the bathroom to cry.
I just enjoyed it. All of it. The kid wrangling, the off key singing coming from the back seat, my sons excitement, my daughter’s edible cuteness. We had a good time, all three of us.
I know, it doesn't sound like much. But it's a very, very big deal.