I popped a little note into my big daughter’s lunchbox for today, Valentine’s Day. Nothing elaborate; just to say I love her. I didn’t bother for my youngest daughter – she can’t read yet, and to be honest she’d probably just eat it. And Benjy, well Benjy will be with me all day anyway. I hope he knows that I love him. I think he knows.
It got me thinking that, at this moment in time, nobody loves my children more than I do. Their Daddy loves them just as much, but nobody loves them more than us. How could they? We – in our love for them and our love for each other – are their reference point for love. The yardstick against which every future love will be measured.
Their reference point for love. Just as my parents were for me. It was hard for me to understand, until I became a mum myself, just how much my mum must have loved me. Sitting up through the night when Jackie had chickenpox, helplessly wishing I could take away her pain, I remembered my mum doing the same with me – holding me, rocking, imploring me to squeeze her hands as hard as I could, as if I could transfer the pain on to her. My reference point for love.
I’m secure in my marriage because I know my husband loves me that much too. He’s already seen me through health and sickness, through living on opposite sides of the world, through typhoid fever and a motorbike crash, through life-and-death decisions and through childbirth and all that has followed; he loved me before and after and because and despite of all that. Some day my girls will grow up and, I hope, find someone who loves them as much as that, as much as I do. Who meets their reference point for love. But Benjy? He’ll never find someone else to love him like that.
Jackie says ‘I love you Mummy’ a lot. When she’s been naughty. When she’s tired and snuggly. When I’m not paying her enough attention. Caitlin’s just starting to get cuddly, to hold up her chubby little arms to be picked up, to snuggle in to your shoulder with her curly head. But Benjy? He’ll never say ‘I love you.’
During a hospital stay last year one of our favourite doctors observed that Benjamin smiled every time I spoke. ‘He knows mummy’s voice,’ she said. Another doctor commented that ‘his heart rate goes up when you go near’. I can’t decide if that’s the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard, or the most. To be reliant upon a number on a monitor to tell me that my son loves me? Or to be fortunate enough to have him plugged into a machine that actually tells me his heart leaps when I walk into the room?
I hope he knows that I love him too. That my heart, too, leaps when I am with him. That nobody will ever love him more than I do. That whether he knows it or not, I will always be his reference point for love, and he, in his unconditional way, will be mine.