What If He Doesn't Like Me?

When I first became pregnant I imagined having a little girl would be easier. I had this scenario in my head that we would be best friends, and I'd teach her girly things like how to paint her nails (not that I'm overly impressive at it) and I'd buy her pretty dresses and it would be all butterflies and pretty flowers and life would be dandy. Deep down though I knew we were having a boy. Before it was even confirmed I just knew it (I'm intuitive like that) So then a different scenario began forming in my head. One where Gavin would teach him to play football and teach him how to play the guitar and the drums and all the other things that Gavin is amazingly good at. He would take him swimming and to the park and they would become this little unit. Daddy and his little mini me (because, again, I just knew he was going to be Gavin's double but in this scenario where did I fit in? What could I contribute to this little pack?

What if he didn't like me? What if I was just there to clean up after him but Daddy was there to play with him, make him laugh and take him on adventures. What if I was just there to keep him clothed and keep the house nice and tidy because that's what I'm good at. I'm not good at playing Cowboys and Indians, I'm not good at throwing him so high in the air that he gets that look of terror when he wonders 'what if you don't catch me' then he squeals with laughter when Daddy does catch him and he's desperate to do it again. I don't know how to be good at boy things. I don't like rough and tumble.

Once my little boy was born that feeling kind of went away for a while. We had a newborn and I fed him and he required me to survive. He needed me. After the first few weeks Daddy went back to work and he needed me every day. He needed me to keep him clean, he needed me to feed him but he also needed me to keep him amused, to stimulate his beautiful little brain. He would follow the sound of my voice, he would look for me when I left the room. I was important, I was needed.

Then he left the newborn stage and the doubt began again. Daddy would come home from work and Logan's little face would light up. It was Daddy that caused the first giggle. When Mummy couldn't get him to nap for love nor money it was Daddy's magic touch and big shoulders that Logan would drift off on. What use was I when I couldn't get my baby to laugh or nap (a legitimate question I asked Gavin when I was having an existential crisis one night)

Then just before Christmas Logan got the cold, and I don't just mean a little sniffle. I mean WORST COLD EVER. He was lethargic, he wouldn't eat, he couldn't sleep, he was coughing and spluttering, his nose was blocked, he was dehydrated. He was a poorly little soul for a good 2 weeks. And guess who was the person he wanted through it all? His mum. I was the one who lay on the couch with him cuddled into me while I watched what ever mind numbing nonsense he wanted to watch on the tele. It was me that he wanted to spend 80% of his day sleeping on. It was me that needed to attempt to unblock his nose with the nasal aspirator. It was me he wanted and needed to take care of him.

Then I slowly began to realise: that's why we come as a team, Gavin and I. He might be good at the games and play. But it's me he looks for when he's feeling poorly or there's something wrong. I've come to accept that as a mum that's my role. To fix things, to organise things, to take care of everything. Daddy might get the easy bit but I get the most important bit.