When David was three, Wyatt decided he wanted another baby. I was actually open to the idea at first – I loved motherhood. Only one thing was holding me back, and that was David. I remembered how intense those early months were, and how little time I had for anything else, even with just one child. I simply could not imagine how he would adjust to sharing me with a needy newborn, nor how I could live with myself if my David suffered for having to share my attention.
So I told Wyatt that I didn’t want any more children. He was disappointed, but as soon as I’d made my decision, I knew it was the right one. Over the years that followed, Wyatt would ask me every now and again if I’d reconsider – but the older David got, the more certain I was that I should focus my energy on him. And that’s what I did.
David was the kind of child who reached all of his milestones early. He walked at ten months, he was speaking in full sentences by the time he was two, and he showed remarkable mathematics skills from a very early age. As soon as he learned to talk, my days were filled with an endless series of ‘why’s that made my head ache sometimes. I’d occasionally get exasperated with the demands of his limitless curiosity, but I was quietly very proud of the way he seemed to be interrogating the world as he learned it.
‘Mummy, who decided what order the numbers go in?’
‘Mummy, how did the moon get in the sky?’
‘Mummy, why is Grandpa Gillespie old?’
‘Mummy, when I eat food, how does my belly turn it into poop?’
‘Mummy, where do butterflies go at night?’
I kept him at home with me until he was four. Other mothers in our social set had enrolled their children at preschool, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. On the odd occasion when he’d gone to my mother’s so I could run an errand, I fretted dreadfully for him – there was no way I wanted to commit to a weekly period where he was out of my sight. I loved the way that as soon as the slightest thing would go wrong – if he couldn’t find a toy or he stumbled or there was a loud sound – he’d scan the room, frantically searching for me. Then he’d make a beeline for me, and his chubby little arms would loop around my neck, and he’d press his face against mine. So instead of preschool, I tried to meet the demands of David’s inquisitive mind with trips to the library and on the odd occasion when we ventured beyond Milton Falls, I’d ignore Wyatt’s eye rolls and take our son to museums.
David was a clever child, but he was also quick to develop strong gross motor skills, and, unfortunately, Wyatt wasn’t about to miss a thing like that. Soon they were spending hours in the backyard, kicking the ball back and forth to each other. I loved that they were becoming close – what mother wouldn’t want to see her son and his father build a relationship? But I used to stand at the kitchen window and watch them play together, and tell myself that the twisting in my gut was something other than jealousy.
Soon David was old enough to start kindergarten. He was so excited to be a ‘big boy’, but all I felt was anxiety. He was going to be away from me for thirty hours a week, and I knew that he didn’t realise the major shift that was about to take place in the way that our lives ran. On that first morning, he was positively vibrating with energy and anticipation. He settled quickly into the class, but I waited outside for almost an hour, peeking through the window to ensure he was okay. Eventually, one of the other clingy kindergarten mothers gave me an equally teary hug and suggested we go get a coffee.
As I left the school gate that morning, I really felt like I’d left a part of my soul behind. I knew it was all a part of the journey of parenthood, but it felt like it had come too soon – like my role in his life was starting to fade already. And that idea was terrifying.