There comes a time in life where you think you’ve earned your stripes in adulting. When you feel like you’ve had enough experiences – good and bad – to be a qualified adult that can make decisions based on the years you’ve accumulated (and you have the wrinkles to prove it).
But then something happens that despite the experience you think you have in your locker, it knocks you for six and you’re left wondering… how on earth did I allow that to happen?
Of course, life happens and as we all know, life isn’t designed to be perfect. After all, how would we appreciate the good if we didn’t experience the bad?
And while I know all this – I mean we all know that anyone with a pulse faces challenges in their lives, don’t we? – it scares the life out of me. Not because of what may come my way, but what may come in the way of my children and their happiness.
I mean, in my head, I have already driven to the house of the boy that dumped my daughter and told him she was far too good for him anyway.
Which brings me to books. Or words, more specifically.
Growing up, I absolutely loved to read. I still love reading now but shamefully, the last book I bought was from audible – where I could hear the story while unloading the dishwasher or folding the clothes. It’s the sad reality of a working mum but someone has to do it, right?
Anyway, complaining about my lack of time is for another post so I’ll try not to digress – as I usually like to do in all manner of communication.
So, reading. Words.
They have a profound effect, hey?
It could be some sound advice, a stern talking-to or a declaration of love… but words mean everything, don’t they?
I guess it’s the reason I loved – and love – to read. As a child, teenager and young adult, I just obsessed over stories – mostly fictional – and searched for a reason to resonate.
That’s right – sometimes I even found myself actively trying to resonate or finding a reason to relate – even if it had nothing to do with my life at the time. Such was the effect of words with power or meaning.
I’ve digressed again, haven’t I? Because I’ve deviated from the point I was trying to make – those damn words, there are just so many of them to type up as I feel all the feels – and that was about my children and arming them with the tools in life to conquer life’s challenges.
Books. Words. Experiences. Life.
I am not naive enough to think Marley Mouse is going to create little SuperHeroes of my own children. I know that while they’ll read it – as they have already – and love him the way I do, they will probably throw a little extra love Marley’s way because their Mum is the Author and they’ll feel a bit proud (that’s pretty special also, hashtag just saying). But part of me hopes that in one Marley Mouse Incredible Tale – and even if it is just one – they take away with them something that strikes a chord, something that they remember and apply to their own lives, no matter how big and experienced they think they are.
One can only hope.