![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
radegundOne of the things I didn't quite anticipate about being a parent was the way it's redrawn my map of physical love. My children's bodies are utterly beautiful - their smooth faces, the intricacies of their irises, the curves of their calves, the way their muscles move under their skin, the way they are warm and strong and alive. I get intense joy from touching them, hugging them, stroking their heads, holding their hands. I think the ancient Greeks had a word for this, but my frayed brain isn't delivering it up.
Two versions of the same conversation
Unny: I love you, Mama.
Mama: I love you too.
Unny: I superlove you!
Mama: Wow.
Unny: Superloving means really really REALLY loving.
Mama: Cool. I superlove you too.
Fiachra: *erupts into enormous grin* Hai!
Mama: Hiya, love! Look at you! Look at my little pettikins boodlecreature!
Fiachra: A-ghihhh!
Mama: A-ghihhh! You're gorgeous! Yes, you are!
Fiachra: Ghhhuh!
Mama: You're so gorgeous they want to arrest you!
Fiachra: Eng-guh! *flails arms in manner of one inexpertly conducting climactic passage of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture*
Mama: Eng-guh! Yeah!
Fiachra: *looks thoughtful*
Mama: Yeah, you're lovely.
Fiachra: *emits loud and and copious poo*
Mama: You are. Come on, we'll change you.
...and so forth. Unny's version is more concise.
This is the biggest part of my work as a parent: practical loving - demonstrating to them, again and again, at 2a.m. as well as at noon, with cuddles and grins and milk and songs and wipes and burps and comfort and dancing and clean clothes and warm baths and beansontoast and answers and games and stories and endless, endless nappies, that they are loved and lovable - and, ultimately, loving in their turn.
Two versions of the same conversation
Unny: I love you, Mama.
Mama: I love you too.
Unny: I superlove you!
Mama: Wow.
Unny: Superloving means really really REALLY loving.
Mama: Cool. I superlove you too.
Fiachra: *erupts into enormous grin* Hai!
Mama: Hiya, love! Look at you! Look at my little pettikins boodlecreature!
Fiachra: A-ghihhh!
Mama: A-ghihhh! You're gorgeous! Yes, you are!
Fiachra: Ghhhuh!
Mama: You're so gorgeous they want to arrest you!
Fiachra: Eng-guh! *flails arms in manner of one inexpertly conducting climactic passage of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture*
Mama: Eng-guh! Yeah!
Fiachra: *looks thoughtful*
Mama: Yeah, you're lovely.
Fiachra: *emits loud and and copious poo*
Mama: You are. Come on, we'll change you.
...and so forth. Unny's version is more concise.
This is the biggest part of my work as a parent: practical loving - demonstrating to them, again and again, at 2a.m. as well as at noon, with cuddles and grins and milk and songs and wipes and burps and comfort and dancing and clean clothes and warm baths and beansontoast and answers and games and stories and endless, endless nappies, that they are loved and lovable - and, ultimately, loving in their turn.