That moment.
It’s not changing nappies, wiping tears or hearing the ever present “Mama. Mama. MAMA!!”
It’s not folding little clothes, seeing the vast quantities of milk in the fridge or dealing with a snotty nose.
It’s not the fact that the most watched channel in our house is CBeebies, that toys are strewn everywhere or I read toddler books more often than my own.
It’s not when I open my bag and the first thing I see is a stick she insisted on having but wouldn’t carry, that I often leave the house with a sticker on my coat or when I find myself inanely singing nursery rhymes with 10 other women once a week.
It’s that moment just before I go to bed.
When I sneak into her room with only the nightlight to guide me, though I don’t need the light to make my way to her.
When I listen to her breathing as I can’t go to sleep myself until I’ve heard that slow, steady rhythm and reassured myself that all is well.
When I brush her hair off her face.
When I softly plant a kiss on her forehead.
When I tuck the blanket round her little body that little bit closer.
That’s when I feel like a mother.
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