Living with irony

I've come to the conclusion that being a parent means living with irony. And by this, I don't mean bad luck or coincidence as in the 1990s Alanis Morisette song. I mean incongruity or inconsistency between reality and context, between two desires, between expectation and outcome.

Let's take excursions down the street. Not too long ago, I had to carry Bubs on my hip if I'd forgotten the pram or trolleys weren't available. When he started walking, it was fantastic! That is, until he learned that he could wriggle his hand out of mum's. Now that he's walking, running and climbing up and down things, sometimes I'm like - could you please stay in the same place I left you?

It's the same with feeding. When Bubs started using the spoon, it was wonderful because it gave me a bit of space to do other things while he ate. However, being a toddler, his aim and table manners aren't quite refined yet. Hence, after meals, there's a bit of table-wiping, face-cleaning, clothes-changing, floor-mopping and sighing going on.

So it's this bittersweet spot of being fit to burst with pride and yet oddly harking back to "simpler" times. I think when you're marking time by the growth of your child, you tend to straddle the past and present. You remember how things were, what you wished for, then you see them come true... along with other things you hadn't anticipated, least of which is wishing things hadn't changed at all, even as you are pleased that they did. Funny that.