Dear Cam and Scott
The title of this post is from a song by
R.E.M. – a really cool band, in your ancient mother’s opinion, that will be
ancient history by the time you read this. (Actually, they’re already ancient
history.)
Another thing that will be ancient
history when you read this is a TED talk by
Sherry Turkle. She says the way we (perfectly) present ourselves in virtual
space means we’re giving up real (warm body) conversation in favour of (virtual)
connection and how that ultimately leads to (dysfunctional) isolation. I watched it today because I’m doing some
research for a conference and I thought, how fascinating will it be to see how the
world will be using technology and social media when my boys are teenagers?
Then I thought: might someone who reads
what I write about your little lives accuse me of using the perfect distance of
rose-tinted cyber-realism to turn you into shiny happy toddlers? Or worse, to edit
and filter myself into a shiny happy mom?
So I wanted to clear that up with you. Because
ultimately this blog is yours. And because sometimes you’re dirty grumpy toddlers
and I’m a tired cranky mom.
I’m pretty strict on myself when I write
anything. It has to be honest. Uncontrived. Every word working hard to earn its
place. The point of this blog is to archive for you both the cute-funny-precious
things and the ouch-bumpy-tough things of your journeys, and to treasure how
God gives me sips of his glory as I watch him hold you and unfold you in the
palm of his hand.
There are things I don’t really want to treasure,
and things I kind of hope you forget. Like me crying when the final tantrum of
the day breaks me and I feel like a desperate drowning mustard-gassed soldier in
a Wilfred Owen poem (this is seriously
ancient history). But there’s God’s glory in those times too because when I get
to the end of myself and the only thing left to do is to cry out to Jesus for wisdom
or patience or sanity he always delivers. The Saviour saves.
So anyway, it’s been tough lately.
Something is frustrating you, Cam. Maybe
you’re picking up my sad-stressed-excited vibes (i.e. next year looms paradoxically
dark and full of promise – big scary changes and decisions and opportunity and
hope). You’re so sensitive. Maybe you’ve realised that sometimes we cry over
your eyes. Maybe you’re mad at the world for being so blurry all the time. Maybe
you’re mad at Scott for seeing birds when we lie on the lawn. Maybe you’re just
being four.
Something is driving you, Scott. To see
how much illegality you can get away with, and how quickly. And to cling to me
in the mornings when I’m trying to put on mascara. And to cough. And cough. (And
vomit.) And cough.
Yet still, you guys are insufferably,
intolerably lovable and loved. I would go through the Wilfred Owen stuff for
you any day, and again the next.
Shiny happy Scott, you’ve decided it’s
time to start talking, and we just love your tweetalige-preschool jabber (‘Myne
juice!’). I love how when we’re grocery shopping together you climb out of your
seat and hold up trolley traffic to hug me hard.
Shiny happy Cam, I love how you spell our
surname to anyone who will listen and how you say to the petrol attendant, ‘Fill
it up with 93-unleaded, please,’ handing over the cash.
Just FYI, this is the also the week Dad and
I decided that monetizing some of my blogs wouldn’t be a bad idea, in light of
no more Mom-income five months from now. This week I made six shiny happy South
African cents. So already I’m really cashing in on your cuteness… J
All my love, and then some,
Mom
xx
Scott washing my car, and his train, and himself.
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