Biscuit

 

We were visiting Granny a while back. I had put Johnny to bed when my Mum emerged saying he was asking for a biscuit. What??! At bedtime? (Guess who's the snack police in our household?) But when I went to investigate, he had actually been trying to tell her that he was a bit scared (bi-sked).

I'm feeling a touch 'biscuit' myself (though it's taken me a week or so of feeling blue to admit it). We're due for Mark's annual follow up hospital appointment and I am dreading it.

Not because he's not doing well. In fact, in many ways, the child I am mother to this year is a totally different character from the little boy of this time last year. A year of a more understanding and accomodating teacher, a family who are unapologetic about what is and isn't best for him, enough fish oil to float a boat and a dairy free diet have all played their part. But in the main, I think he has just grown into his own skin.

I should be happy to go back then and trumpet his successes, but I am filled with dread. It just takes me straight back to the emotional turmoil of last year. And I resent that. And it makes me scrutinize him all over again, and question my own parenting. And nobody ever comes out well when you do that do they?