When milestones weigh heavily

I used to have a mate who would dismiss pretty much anything I’d say about my kids with “Ages and stages. It’s all just ages and stages.” As technically correct as that probably is, it felt dismissive. On my blog, I like to celebrate children and parenting, so I’m not going to disregard nights like tonight, I’m going to immortalise them and share them wide in case someone can relate.

Maybe it’s a milestone all children reach. I remember Bast going through it, though I can’t remember if I cried. I probably did. I cried tonight.

It’s a night much like a hundred others. Deer Heart is out having a pre-Christmas catch-up and the bath, books, and bed routine has gone well overall. Minimal crying over dumb shit (them) and minimal yelling (me.) Decent night.

So I tuck and kiss and hug and tuck and blow kisses on my way out the door with a firm reminder of “No talking!” and “Go to sleep now, loves.” And then I do what I often do after that door is shut. I stand in the middle of my trashed lounge room like a startled rabbit, making no noise, trying to remember who I am and what I was doing next. I’m still in this pose when their door creaks open and the slap slap of bare feet on tiles heralds Artemis’s arrival.

I wait, sceptical face on, ready for some bullshit. Then I see her shattered little expression and it all melts away. “Oh Arty, what’s the matter?”

Legit no idea what she’s saying, but it sounds serious. I check the bedroom door is shut and hustle her over to the lounge for a hug. “Please try again,” I say, “tell me what is the matter. Slow and clear.”

Through her tears she chokes out, “I don’t want to die, Mummy. And I don’t want to grow up because then you’ll die and I’ll never see you again.”

Cue the mummy waterworks.

I wonder: is this because of my very obvious lack of parents? Is this because I put too much emphasis on road safety and healthy eating? Is it my fault my children go through this period?

Elen has already claimed some of my stuff for when I die, but at four years old death is still cool to her. The implications haven’t sunk in. She’s told me when she grows up I will die and then she can ride our bike alone. But Artemis? Tonight, out of nowhere, it clicked for her. One day I will die, and she will go on without me.

So I held her and pulled it together, like “Arty, Daddy still has his mum and dad. Daddy’s mum still has her mum and dad. Grandpa still has his mum. Humans can live a very long time! If I look after myself, I can still be here when you have kids and when your kids have kids. Or your dog, whatever you’re into.”

After a while, she asked for a healthy snack because she could only think of four healthy things she had eaten today—and her night-time drink too, she loves Lunar Latte—and while she ate her sliced tomatoes she asked me her burning questions about my mum. Did she wear a bracelet like mine? Did she marry? Who bought her earrings? (The same person who buys mine, it so happens; Aunty H.)

Soon we were talking about Rainbow Dash, her school friends and milk moustaches and I was tucking her back into bed, fears forgotten for the time being.

But I’ll never forget.

I’ll never forget the intensity in her gaze as she tells me, “You’ll kiss me goodnight every night until I die.”

I won’t. If the Gods are kind I’ll die long before her, and besides, I doubt at thirty she will want me to or will live close enough to make it feasible. But I would if she’d let me. Just like my mum, still kissing me on the lips and tucking me in when I was a teenager. Kissing my friends goodnight too. We didn’t care if people knew we loved each other. It didn’t matter that she was crazy and I hate kisses. I’d call her right now and ask her to tuck me in; if only I could.

But it’s the reminder I needed. I’ve been working on a blog about labels and veganism—that’ll come out after this one now—as I’ve faced a lot of questions lately about why I live how I do and isn’t it all too hard? And I’ve struggled with motivation to keep up with my fitness, to do my physio, to work on things that don’t provide a fast visual improvement.

Well, this is why. For her. To minimise the likelihood that she’ll watch me suffer through the failing of my body before I see her marry, travel, spawn, launch her fortune 500 company, or whatever else she has her heart set on. I show up at my appointments and the gym and the mound of produce on my bench because my babies are more important than bacon. Because nothing tastes a sweet as life itself. I know what it’s like to go through all your adult firsts without the person who got you through your baby firsts and—if I can help it—I won’t do that to her.

Maybe it is all “ages and stages” but I’ve no way to know for sure. What I do know is I don’t want my grandchildren to automatically assume that the death of a parent is a rite of passage into adulthood.

Miriam Cumming is the mother of three little Goddesses, as well as being a fantasy author, yogi, wife and witch. When she’s not adulting, she plays with stickers and enjoys World of Warcraft. If you’re not already, you ought to follow her on Facebook and Instagram for a daily dose of originality.