When I think about thinking about what matters most to me, the automated word my brain spits into consciousness is ‘family.’ Of course family matters most to me, but what does that mean if I break it down further? I feel most whole, most happy, when I am with my children.

When my six year old writes me a Mother’s Day card two months past Mother’s Day, saying his favourite day of the week is Sunday because mummy doesn’t have to work. When he asks me to do Harry Potter lego with him, then sits on the floor patting our dogs whilst I work out the errors in construction and rebuild the foundation on my own. And then when he comes to me after having been quiet in his room, to present the vehicle he has built using purely his imagination, explaining the function of each section with importance. When he first wakes up, all sleepy eyed and nest-haired, his voice soft in the early morning hours. The way he lights up when I ask for a cuddle. When he comes out of the school classroom, makes eye contact with me and then immediately zooms off into the playground, only to be retrieved with threats of departure and ensuing cancellations. When I ask him to fold his pyjamas after getting dressed, and he spreads them onto the floor and then carefully rolls the sleeves in and the whole set ends up in a ball, which he is proud of. When I tell him the kids can have a spa, and he does a freaky little happy dance with his arms in the air, eyes narrowed and lips in a pout. When he asks me to come with him down the hallway even in broad daylight, so that I can scare off the monsters that live, apparently lurking in the shadows of our home. When he’s sitting, pensive in his car seat and he volunteers some golden piece of information that if I’d asked, he might never have shared. When he creeps up behind our chickens, aiming to grab hold of one and stroke it into submission in order to fulfil his stewardship of locking them up each day. When he says ‘hamouli’ or ‘hostibal’ or ‘Gabrielle.’ When he asks me if I’m teaching on this day, and is visibly proud when I say yes. And then when he asks if I can please teach his class one time? When he takes an hour to eat dinner because this is the time he has chosen to ask every question under the sun and explain the intricacies of Pokémon, to my dismay. When he cuddles his little brother of his own volition, or pats his head, or expresses his adoration. When he’s asleep, when he’s awake, when he speaks and when he’s quiet. And when he loves me, for being his mummy, every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day.

And that is only the beginning. What matters most to me is embedded in every moment of being both near to and far from my three year old boy. It strikes my heart when he tells me, “you’re good, mummy” or “I want mummy” or “when I suck my thumb it feels nice.” When he invites me into his home, (his bedroom) and closes the door behind to keep the dogs inside, to their dismay. When he takes his morning tea into ‘his home’ and places it on his kitchen bench, and then tells me “you can go now.” When he shuffles onto my lap to eat his dinner, when he turns normal speaking phrases into song, and when he must absolutely only ever have his Elsa plate for his toast. When I pick him up and he nestles his head into the nook between my shoulder and my face. When he says to me, “I didn’t know where you was” and when he giggles with unadulterated glee when I reassure him that I’m really never far away. When I take a photo of him and he pulls some face that’s beyond his years; tongue out, one eye winking, split stance. When he interweaves his fingers through mine for comfort, at bedtime, at drop off time, at breakfast time. When I greet him and he is clearly happy to see me, when he kisses my nose, my eyelids, my hairline, my ears, even when it’s loud, or sloppy, it’s perfection. When he puts his school bag on by himself, and it’s too big and too heavy and banging on his calf muscles. When he names his soft toys, or tells me the pirate cuddlies are his kids, and he is their daddy. When he tells me every single time we are midway through brushing his teeth that he’s thirsty, and then follows up with needing a cuddle, and puts one ear right to the centre of my chest. When he sneaks out of his bed and gets in with his brother, when he parks his ‘(motor)bike.’ When he spells his name, or points out one of his ‘numbers’ on the page we’re reading together. When he tells me “don’t look at me” once I put him on the toilet, the undying support he has for his brother and the immense upset he feels when his brother is cranky with him. The way he says “I don’t want to talk at nanny anymore” and tries immediately to hang up, this second child is a force to be reckoned with and his existence is my existence. My two children are what matters most to me and as their mother these moments are only the tiniest fraction of what gives my life meaning beyond explanation. I want to be there for them, I want to be their unequivocal support, I want to teach them, to discipline them, to be honest with them and to show them what wonders the world can behold. If I am anything good and wholesome in this world, it will be as the mother of my boys, and that is what matters most to me.