Inside Out

Living with an almost two-year-old

The thought had obviously crossed my mind. Hard not to when it’s happening all around you. It never seemed that urgent, especially when you’ve been used to living in the in-between spaces. But after five years in the same flat, the same city, and watching people around me be pulled together like magnets and attracting more and more, there came a time when cooking alone didn’t always feel like a luxury.

I’ve been living with an almost-two year old for around a month. I’ve gotten used to the random words she says and what they mean (even if they’re exactly the same, just said in a different intonation or circumstance). I know how to make her laugh and I know what food she likes (anything fried) and doesn’t like (vegetables). So in truth, it’s hard not to be thinking about it.

In the morning she creeps down the stairs with Ky and says ‘up’ as she crawls into bed with me, pointing at things on my t-shirt. This morning she sat on my hip as I gently poached potatoes for a tortilla, gently demanding a the hot, salty, starchy slices when she saw them turning golden.

I find myself catching my reactions in front of her, like not gasping when she falls down or not talking shit about myself when I see photos of me on my phone screen. Lately I’ve realised that I’m very inconsistent with how I show my emotions, often preferring to press them down so I appear more palatable and imploding quietly, rather than shed a tear in front of someone. I watched that movie Inside Out and thought about the complexity of our emotions and how I do often try to rationalise one with the other internally, quietly, slowly, especially when it comes to dealing with other people. When it’s myself I’m battling, I am not as patient.

The questions that arise: will I ever get a chance to be a mother? Will I be a good one? Could I handle it? Am I selfless enough? Am I willing to sacrifice a life I’ve been building alone for so long? Who will help me get there? It raises the stakes for dating, which is frustrating when you’d like nothing more than to be casual and unfazed by the whole thing.

At night I dream of the other life. Nothing wrong with this one, I keep telling myself. But it’s in our nature to want more, right? Satisfaction never fulfilled, goal posts forever moving. I’d never really thought about milestones before. But they’re rearing their heads more and I guess I’ll need to hit one sometime soon.

They say the trick is not to want it too much. Not to set your expectations too high. I hate that this is the way we need to love. The pretence of nonchalance. An illusion to make it hurt less. After a while, even the most secure person begins to wonder if it just might be their fault. All the books and teachers and inspirational tarot card readings tell you that’s not true. Hard to not slide back into bad habits, returning to secrets, keep playing small.

Of course when you look deeply into a two year old’s eyes and they give you a goofy little grin you think, ok, there’s hope in the not knowing – in the wonder of an empty road ahead of you.