In wanting to write this post, I’ve found myself at a crossroads. The number of times I’ve chosen to tell stories about the kids over recent years has dwindled, and this has been a deliberate decision. Of course, I could tell many, many more, but I am conscious of their opinions and worry about possible consequences.
I always knew this would happen and I’m prepared for it; I’m also aware of the argument that in relating my feelings they are purely mine. Such posts, these tiny tales, are my interpretations and I would never suppose that they would ever represent their individual viewpoints.
But sometimes an event occurs that I feel is significant enough to want to share; to extend the earlier metaphor, events converge, showing yet again the complex flow that is life. We find ourselves in the middle of something that requires processing – demands it, even.
All this is to say that last weekend the kids got new beds. Bunk beds, specifically. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision and purchase. One night I was tucking Keira into her old bed, leaning over to kiss her goodnight, and the next she towers over me, peering over her rail, up high against the ceiling. To get anywhere near her, I need to climb four rungs up a ladder and crawl over the mattress. I didn’t realise that would happen. While I’m the sort of person who mourns change far too much (and, in fact, this was probably the best way to go, in a ‘rip the band-aid off’ fashion), I still need to honour this feeling.
I wasn’t the only one with issues: the cat, who normally slept all day on Keira’s old bed, has been wandering around Keira’s room, jumping over the desk section directly underneath the bunk itself, trying to figure out how to get up higher, meowing her displeasure. This was distracting for my writing, so I eventually made her a nest on the floor.
However, I was premature in my celebrations and barely an hour after this was taken she was awake and unhappy again and I moved the blanket up onto the desk, where it’s been ever since and she’s more-or-less resigned to it all.
What proved to be the blanket for my proverbial soul was when Keira started populating her bookcase, as seen in the top picture. Until now, her books were hidden away in her cupboard – neglected, as a consequence. When I saw her gather the piles up and take them out for their new homes, I felt my first flickers of acceptance. Spinning my sadness upside-down, I thought instead isn’t it a privilege to witness this? To give her a visible, proper showcase and allow her to make the choice as to what is or isn’t important enough to display. Along with books on Egypt, for a school project she’s working on at the moment, we have the Harry Potter series and others I’ve suggested: Daddy Long Legs and Homecoming.
How this will change again over the coming years is yet to be seen. I’m excited to find out.
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