My younger son's most frequently asked question at the moment is, "Mum, who's your favourite child?" He's nearly 14, and smiling.
I could give the obvious answer, "I don't have a favourite", but his question makes me want to do better.
Loving my sons is like being a traveler in an infinitely beautiful and varied landscape. I don't know how big the scope of it is, because when I look to the horizon, I see no limits. Some days, I walk through grassy meadows, some days I stumble across windswept uplands, some days I hurtle through streets of the city, some days I wander along the shore, some days I pick my way across floors strewn with damp towels. There is no path, but there is a sense of purpose. The signposts are in a language we choose to ignore.
My sons travel together, but often in opposite directions. When they come across each other, they tussle and they laugh. They do not need to greet each other, but they wish each other good night.
When I look back over my shoulder, I see where we've come from and where we are going. When I look up, I feel a surge of gratitude. When I look ahead, I am curious, and run to catch up with them.
Both of my sons are my favourite child. Each of them occupies his own space and dimension. There is no contradiction in this, as you'll know.
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