Yesterday I attended my sister’s second pregnancy scan. She discovered she was going to have another son and in turn, I learnt that I was going to have another nephew. I saw his little heart beating on the screen. I saw him placing his thumb into his mouth. And I knew that I would end up loving him as much as I love Joshy.
I love being an auntie. I never thought I would – but it was impossible not to be consumed with happiness when a tiny hand clutched at my finger. Or when he smiled because I did something silly. Or when he says my name as if he’s asking a question. However, this injection of happiness carries with it a consequence – written in Times New Roman, size 8, hidden in the small print, it reads: Becoming an auntie will result in you feeling old.
When I’ve been running around the lounge pretending to be a scary monster (thinking I should probably quit smoking), I’ve felt old. When I’ve been galloping and neighing between the kitchen and the lounge – complete with a 2-year-old jockey – I’ve felt old. When I’ve returned Josh to the top of the slide for the sixteenth time in a row, I’ve felt old. And I’m sure there will be times – in the not too distant future – when I’m made to feel even older... When he gives a confused look as I ask if he’d like a packet of Opal Fruits (because I still refuse to call them Starburst). Or when I mention that I didn’t have internet until I was eleven, and you had to wait until 6pm before you could use it, and it made an agitated dialling noise. Yes, I’m sure I will feel old.
However, as I helplessly become the doomed prey of time, the children’s picture books I read and enjoyed during the latter part of the eighties seem to be ageless. They are books which I’m now rediscovering – welcoming back like an old friend that I accidentally lost touch with. Books that I’ve found again because of Josh. I’ve found The Jolly Postman and Dear Zoo. Where’s Spot? and Mister Magnolia. We’re Going on a Bear Hunt and Where the Wild Things Are. Not Now, Bernard and Dogger. The Very Hungry Caterpillar and The Tiger Who Came to Tea. Rosie’s Walk and Alfie Gives A Hand – plus many others that I’ve not yet been reacquainted with.
These stories will always be my eighties. Well, these and green wellies with two eyes on each foot; mittens with string; Fraggle Rock; white chocolate mice, and My Little Pony.
Thank you for reading,
Lar.
