Love Generation


Before I became a mother, I feared my memory. I was scared that I would start to forget the lives of my children as they grow older as I did, along with them. I feared that the memories of them in nappies, in tiny shoes, first times for everything, would eventually slip away from me.

Until Faith was born. My daughter.

As a mother now, twenty years later, I am not afraid of forgetfulness. I remember every moment, imprinted, like she is permanently attached to every single one of my thoughts. A new fear has been born; I am scared that she will stop wanting me to be in every one of her moments. Her milestones. The important times.

I remember her crawling, walking, standing, running. Look, Mummy! Look at my shoes, my new painting, look at the picture I drew for you. Look how fast I can run, how high I can jump. Look Mum, at my smiley faces on my paper, my bruises, look at my top marks. Look at my certificate, my grades, and my finished degree. Look Mum, see my new job? Look at my house, my work, my new daughter.

Half the time, I don’t remember what she asked me to look at. All I remember is that she asked me to look, and that’s good enough for me.

. . . . . .


I think children go through many more stages than people currently believe.

When I was a baby, I wasn’t old enough to hold onto memories and thoughts, to remember what I knew then. I don’t remember wanting my Mum in every instance of my life, but I can imagine that I did. Like all children, I wanted my Mum there to witness every single second. Did you see what I did, Mummy? I’d ask. Was it good? Did I do it good? Am I special? Tell me, Mummy.

I wanted her to tell me who I was. Then I grew somewhat older, and I despised every second she tried to hold on to my childhood, because I was no longer a child to myself. I wanted independence, and she still was still desperately clinging to the memories of me asking her, Tell me Mummy, is it good? Did I make you proud?

Now, I’m twenty years of age, and I am still looking at all the things my new daughter points me towards. And I am a child again, once more asking and wanting my Mum to tell me, did I do my life well? Have I done well so far? What now? Tell me, Mum.

Am I still special? Is my daughter perfect, like I was to you?

. . . . . . .


I remember my Mum sitting next to my Nana, on opposite sides of the table, each drinking tea over a small vase of flowers. I don’t remember the colour of the flowers; just that they were there.

From what they tell me, I was too young to remember anything at all. Two is so young to remember many specifics, but I do. I remember my dress was pink, and I had no shoes on. I was leaning against the chair in Nana’s living room, watching them drink tea out of blue cups.

I watched them, and how they formed a mirror. My Mum was holding the cup in two hands, as was Nana; they both had their legs crossed the same way under the table, and they both smiled the same. They were the same. They were … me. But I didn’t know this until much later.

I turned and pointed out the window. Look, I said clearly, not really pointing at anything but just to say the word. Look, I said again, and waited for them to turn. I just wanted them to face me, so I could see them. View them. Memorize their faces.

They smiled that same smile I see today, in my mirror. One dimple in the left cheek that caves in, every time. I like the idea of falling into a smile. My Mum turned to my Nana. She always does that, she says, holding the cup with two hands. There’s nothing to look at. But she says Look anyway.

My Nana smiled and shook her head. You did that too, she says. She just wants to know you love her enough to look at nothing.

Love Generation


Joined January 2008

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