Timothy. Tim. Never Timmy.
Tim is what you could call a typical boy. Loves his toilet humour, loves comics, breaks wind an awful lot, loves to make us laugh, loves gory stories, blood and guts, hyperbole and big numbers, thinks war is a game and is just so loud. He is also remarkably sensitive. He’s a great little writer, too, often bringing us stories he’s written just for the fun of it and to make us laugh. My favourite was the one about the old lady who broke someone’s window, but couldn’t afford the $1 billion to replace it because she only had 5 cents in her purse.
He has a way with words both to heal and to hurt. After one particularly difficult dinner a few months ago, he came up and gave me a ‘magical hug to make you all better’ (This from the two and a half year old who, when angry at me, would declare ‘I’m not your son anymore!’). This boy has the sweetest heart. His arms are forever finding me. Surprise hugs, even kisses and always an ‘I love you, Mum’. These are coming so frequently, lately, along with his questions about me possibly dying.
He breaks my heart. He makes me angry at Gloria. Who just tries to tell me I don’t deserve his love. And also that I’m not in any danger. But the psychiatrist told me yesterday I have the same chances as a soldier at Gallipoli of dying from this. Gloria says he’s exaggerating. Also that the 1 in 5 death statistic can be switched around to 4 in 5 being ok.
I’m writing this to remind me of exactly who I’m fighting for. I’ll write about my girl soon. It’s just lately Tim has been getting through to his mum, Hannah, with his words and ways. And I am loving him right back, fiercely.
So even when I get knocked back down before I get fully back up, I will do my best to remember:
Gloria is not me.