You can tell when someone’s exhausted.
It shows up in their eyes.
In the way they stand.
In how close they are to tears.
My daughter is eighteen months into being Remy’s mum.
Last week the molars were coming through.
He was tired and ratty and refusing dinner.
It was 36 degrees. Hot. Humid.
The kind of afternoon that stretches everyone thin.
I felt agitated just watching from the other side of the kitchen bench.
I braced myself for her to lose it.
Instead she leaned in and said, quietly,
“Poor darling. What do you want me to do?”
And then she carried on being his mum.
I didn’t know how to do that.
I loved my kids deeply.
But love didn’t always translate into patience.
I carry stress differently.
A short fuse, some might call it.
When I’m under pressure, my language fails me.
I can’t find the right words for what I’m feeling.
So the wrong words come out.
Usually louder than I intend.
I recognise that in myself now.
There’s something strangely relieving about watching your child handle a moment better than you once did.
It doesn’t feel like being replaced.
It feels like something improving.
I don’t think she knows how proud I am when I watch her.
Maybe part of ageing is realising your children carry some of your rough edges forward — and smooth a few of them out.