There is nothing quite like mothering a little boy. I am hanging on as tightly as I can. Losing grasp with one, fully engulfed by my other.
It's a game of tug-o-war really, and in the wind I hear the gentle whisper of reminder: let the rope loosen with your eldest, Angie. Give him a bit of slack, let him find his own way.
I fight, claw really, relentlessly after him. My heart saying one thing, my mind another.
How lucky am I though, as my grip loosens with him, I am smothered with affections from his brother. I have the gift of foresight, you see. I know what is around the bend.
So I take him, my middle, into my arms, the weight of his seven and a half years solidly on my lap. Inhale, exhale.
Soon I'll have to loosen the rope for him, too. And I will simply step back, watching these boys become men, and hope with every fiber, that I've done them good.
Mothering boys is a beautiful heartache. I love it so.
