Eleven

This week my Dinoboy turns eleven years old. I’m not going to “light of my life” gush, even tough I could. I’ve sat down to write but somethings stopping me. I’m not ready. And that’s okay. There is a wealth of sub text, reveals and consequences that I need to get my words around. I will soon, just not today.

Time, I owed him a little more time. I loved breast feeding, it’s an incredible WTF of bodily functions. The image above is on of a three that depict an honest representation of the early days of mother and baby. Breastfeeding. It made me see a use and value the little fleshy mounds I’d previously despised. However for years I harboured a secret guilt(I’m good at that) I usually only fed him from one breast at a time. Until this week I thought I’d done something wrong, deprived him, it’s making my chest itch just thinking abut it. Holding a friends baby this week discussing feeding I mentioned this guilt and she told me it was fine, good even. That’s one chunk of guilt dissolved. I smugly say I could walk down the high street discreetly feeding him. It seems bold and empowering perhaps, but I’d do it round the house too. It’s not a bad thing to be able to multi task like this, however I don’t think I got the balance right.

Eleven, becoming a man, that is a massive task to undertake. It would be wired and wrong of me to try to do it on my own. Simply because I’m not a man. Having given him some very poor, toxic role models as to what a man looks like there is still some work to do and re-do. That’s OK though because I have been given some very cold, vapid and toxic role models as to what women and mothers look like; with a degree of work we are unlearning what we have been taught.

We are worth loving, worth the space we take up and the space we seek to inhabit. Dinoboy is enough, if he believes it he’ll be golden. If he gets it he’ll go far, forming relationships that are honest, safe and meaningful. This is what I hope for him. With the help of the village we can show him what that looks like and how it feels. Giving him all the time he needs to assimilate what the world is, to be aware of what he is, his privilege and gender, where he fits, how these aren’t bad things, he is not bad.

I owe him the re-do. Every parent feels like they are winging it. It’s not often that we get the chance and confidence to see and say we fucked up and know how to set it right.

 

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