It’s cliché; I love my daughters.
I love Zara’s fiery, curly red hair and her defiant temperament.
I love Lily’s clinginess (mostly) and her tight and squishy cuddles.
There were times when being a mum was hard.
It wasn’t the sleepless nights,
It was the . j o l t i n g . lack of freedom, it was the weight of mum, which replaced my essence.
mum gradually blanketed the old me.
And under that blanket (not cocooned and safe), I lay down questioning, critiquing, criticising,
Am I doing it right?
Am I good enough?
Especially when others found it so much easier than me.
Especially when others were doing it so much better than me.
It’s cliché; I love my daughters.
Am I truly enough?
Is my unconditional love enough?
That’s all I have.
If not…