Pre-dawn

I had already been awake for at least an hour.

The hotel bed was one of those lumpy ones that felt like it was bruising my spine, no matter how I twisted and turned. The room was hot and stuffy, even with the AC on as high as it could go, possibly because it was 35 degrees outside and the seal around the windows wasn't great (as evidenced by the fact that the closed blinds had flapped and rattled against the sills all night, waking me out of uneasy slumber with every gust of summer wind).

It was so hot that both children slept only in nappies. Their bare little bodies made time roll backwards: they seemed impossibly young and vulnerable, still my babies for this night, at least.

When at long last the dark weakened under those flapping, banging blinds and the pre-dawn sneaked into the hotel room in stripes of grey, watery light, I took in a giant breath of relief.

To my right, tucked tightly into a ball on his belly, I could see my little boy asleep with his thumb in his mouth and his curly hair wild on the pillow.

Two today.

How am I even a mother? And I started that self-indulgent thing that mothers like to do, thinking to myself: this time last year... this time two years ago... now...

The way he giggles when I tickle him: big, throaty, hearty chuckles. His current obsession with everything vehicular, our days punctuated with "chug" and "zoom" and "broom" and "beep beep beep." Chasing his sister, arm raised, and when I say "No hitting!" he responds "Just kissing, Mummy," and resumes the chase, baby-lips pursed. How he still sucks his thumb and curls his hair when he's tired. How everything new is "lovely" and "beautiful" and "I lub it!" At night when I tuck him in he sits straight back up and tries to make me laugh. "Lie down Ralph," I say, hiding my smile behind my hand. But when I leave the room he calls out, repetitively until I respond. "I lub you Mummy! I lub you more! Lub you por eba!"

The wind rattled again and on the other side of the room, Scout opened her eyes and looked straight at me. I crooked my finger at her and she leaped out of bed and tip-toed as fast as she could over to ours. I lifted her into the lumpy bed, in between me and a still-sleeping Mr B, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

Then I heard a thump. Ralph had climbed out of his own bed, and thudded over to ours, all puffy-eyed and wild-haired, and I helped him climb into bed, too.

"What doing Mummy?" he asked, voice croaky with sleep.

"Shh," I said, "lie down."

So he simply lay down, half on the bed and half snuggled on top of me, thumb back in mouth. Scout lay down next to him and reached her little hand out to his curls, softly stroking them.

"Is that lovely Ralph?" she asked softly.

He let his thumb out of his mouth for only a second. "Yes," he whispered. And then, "Do my ear?"

So Scout tickled his ear, then his back, and then his hair again.

"It lovely," he breathed.

Then Mr B woke up and rolled over. "Happy birthday Ralph!" he announced, and both children sat up.  Ralph pulled his thumb out of his mouth and said "Yeah!" and the birthday began.

Home delivery coffee

Dear entrepreneurs and cafe-owners of Melbourne, here is a business idea. Consider it a gift from me to you.

Home delivery coffee.

Allow me to put my case.

Imagine, if you will, the thousands upon thousands of parents, grandparents, friends and nannies in Melbourne right now who have spent all day chasing after babies and toddlers. Anyone who has done this knows how BEHOND EXHAUSTING it is to do. And now imagine this occurring on the back of a night of little or at best broken sleep. Make that THREE AND A HALF YEARS of little or at best broken sleep, night after night.

And now imagine that at around two o’clock in the afternoon, by some happy confluence of hard work, planning, and sheer dumb luck, those babies and toddlers actually fall asleep for a nap. In their own beds. At the same time.

And so all those thousands upon thousands of parents, grandparents, friends and nannies who have spent all day chasing after all those babies and toddlers FINALLY get a chance to sit down. They know they should be cleaning, or working, or folding washing, or calling their mothers. But they are just so mind-numbingly exhausted that all they can do is sit and stare at that stain on the lounge-room rug left over from the Great Banana Mush Incident of ’13.

Do you know what they would love right now? Coffee. They would really, really love a nap-time coffee. Some might even kill for it, and most would probably pay through the nose for it.

But - and here’s the kicker - even if they had the energy to walk, they couldn't leave the house to buy it. The babies and toddlers are asleep, remember?

Now if someone was to develop an app via which all those people could ORDER a coffee, and have a barista with a coffee cart rock up at their home a few minutes later... Well, that person may well be in line to make their first million.

Just a suggestion.

Image credit: Lesly Juarez, licensed for unlimited use under Creative Commons

A lot of words about not having words

Lately the words haven't seemed to be coming. And I'm not unhappy, in fact, quite the opposite, but I think I am maybe just replete with my simple family life. I have moments, flashes of something so real and powerful, through the day, and I want to share them with you, but the words don't come.

I look at Scout's face as she bends over the toy train-tracks she is fixing for her brother and there is so much human intelligence inside that furrowed brow, I can't even explain. She's just SO REAL, this little girl who was once just a fantasy (like, I am back in my home town of Sydney and I just so happen to bump into somebody from my past and here, by my side, little hand clasped in mine, is a tiny blonde angel. And I say to this person from my past, so matter-of-factly, "Oh, this is my daughter..." And that scenario has never played out but my point is that once it was a fantasy because I never expected to have children and nobody who knew me ever expected me to have children but now, if I happened to TAKE Scout with me to Sydney, it could absolutely be a reality. And that... well, that blows my mind!). Here she is, loving me, challenging me, negotiating with me, making me laugh, this bright and affectionate little humanoid supernova dressed head-to-toe in pink, and the full comprehension of her very existence makes me dizzy.

I'm not telling this very well. I don't have the words.

Ralph wakes up in the morning and calls out for me from his cot. When I go into the children's room and open the curtains to let the early sunshine in, he launches into action. "Hide! Hide!" Still standing up in the cot, he grabs a blanket and throws it over his head, often staggering backwards because he can no longer see: a strange, teddy-bear-patchwork-quilt ghost in his sister's hand-me-down Peppa Pig leggings, missing one sock.

Ralph runs his entire life at 100 percent. From that first, ghostly moment until lights' out, Ralph plays, laughs, runs, kisses, talks, jokes, sings, rages, laments, eats and even sleeps at 100 percent. Again, language fails me. I want to tell you how substantial he is, with his meaty little paws and chubby, bare feet like bricks. Funny faces pulled to make me laugh, and a constant, foot-thumping, shadowy presence in my life as I go about the house: "What doing Mummy?" I feel like I can't do justice his adorable nonchalance when it comes to cheerful disobedience.

Me: "Ralph, turn off the television please." Ralph (not lifting a finger): "Just watching, Mummy."

Me: "Ralph, you can keep that car in bed but it's only to cuddle, not play." Ralph: "Not for playing, just cuddle?" Me: "That's right. It's sleepy time." Ralph: "Broom broom! I playing with my car!" Me: "No Ralph, only for cuddling, or I have to take it away." Ralph: "Alright Mummy. Just playing. Broom broom!"

Me: "Ralph, where are your shoes?" Ralph (with a grin): "Maybe in water?" (In case you are wondering, sandles do not float)

Ralph (in my arms, spotting the cat): "Ruby! Ruby!" Me: "You can pat her Ralph, but you must be gentle." Ralph: "Pat her very gentle?" Me: "That's right, Ruby likes you to be very gentle. You mustn't chase her." Ralph (leaping out of my arms and diving for the cat, who races under a chair): "Ruby! Ruby! AAAAAAAH!" Me: "No Ralph! You mustn't frighten the cat." Ralph (with an angelic smile and a demeanour as though he is reasoning with a dullard): "Very gentle Mummy. Just CHASING her Mummy."

I dunno. These aren't the best exchanges. I can't remember the really good ones because I'm just IN them and not remembering to record them, but I guess what I'm trying to say is just how much I love being a mother to these two incredible, opinionated, emotional, intelligent, loving little balls of electricity.

And how much I am learning from it all. Like, learning about how OTHER people learn.

Scout has been doing some little reading exercises. I show her the sentence "I am Sam." I ask her, "Where is AM?" and she points to it instantly. "Where is I?" Where is SAM?" and she points to each of them in turn. So then I point to AM and ask, "What's that word?" Scout pauses, one finger goes to her mouth. "Um, I don't know." She looks to me for reassurance. It's the same word, the word she just picked out without hesitation only a moment ago. But her brain hasn't learned yet how to make the connection between sight and sound, when it comes to reading. She's great at recognising letters but struggles when I try to get her to think about sounds."Where is M," I'll ask, pointing to a page of text, and she can pick them all out. But then I'll ask, "Which word starts with an M sound, mouse or baby?" And she'll say "Baby!" because she likes babies better than mice.

Anyway, this is all probably very boring for you and I promise to change direction the next time I post on this blog, but honestly I find it all FASCINATING and I don't know how to write about this motherhood thing properly, so instead, I'm blithering on in a fairly pointless overflow of words.

Oh, this is Ralph *not* chasing the cat.

A video posted by Naomi Bulger (@naomibulger) on Sep 21, 2015 at 3:07pm PDT

Scout says

"When I grow up I will be Father Christmas. Ralph can be my elf." ("Father Christmas" is pronounced "Farmer Kitmass")

* * * * *

Scene: the cherubs are yelling at each other.

Me: Use your words. Scout, what words do you have? Scout: Umm, PINK!

* * * * *

"When I grow up I want to be Mummy."

* * * * *

Ralph (pointing at TV): Daddy! Me: That's a talking boat. Is Daddy a talking boat? Scout: No, silly. Daddy is a person. Me: Daddy is one of our favourite people, isn't he. Scout: Yes. (Pause) But he is not very good at cleaning.

* * * * *

While baking biscuits...

Scout: Are we using your special recipe book today Mummy? Me: Yes, and when you grow up and move out of home I will give it to you so you can cook all your favourite recipes. Scout (dissolving into tears): Why do you want me to move away from you? I don't want to go!

Scout got two biscuits that day.

* * * * *

Scout: Why did the button fall off my jacket? Me: It's just getting old. Scout: No YOU are getting old.

* * * * *

Said every night at bedtime, like a litany of love:

"Mummy I love you forever. I never want another Mummy. I never want another Daddy. I never want another Ralph."

* * * * *

"We are going to have noodles and croissant! That's what I'm going to type on the Internet."

* * * * *

"Not 'boddle' Mummy, 'bottle.'" And just like that, my child calls me a bogan.

* * * * *

Scout (wearing her pink, plastic high-heels and carrying two hand-bags): Bye-bye Mummy, I'm heading out. Me: Oh ok. Where are you going? Scout: To the Lost City.

* * * * *

Scene: kids are playing with their doctor kit. Without warning, Ralph jabs me in the leg with a toy needle.

Me: Yoww! Scout: We are doctors Mummy. It will only hurt for a second. Me (nursing actual bruise): Oh good. Will you both be doctors when you grow up? (This is a previously-stated ambition) Scout (bursting into tears): WAAAH! No! I want to be a duck when I grow up! Can I be a duck? Me: Um. Okayyy... Scout (after a thoughtful pause): But will you still let me come inside the house when I am a duck?

Queen of the universe

“She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.” ~ JD Salinger, “A Girl I Knew” Sometimes do you feel like you are trying - and failing - to hold the universe together? I don’t mean the WHOLE universe, of course (now wouldn’t THAT be a task), but the universe of your life, whatever that may be. Your job, your family, your home, your health, your friends, your creative ambitions, your grand plans, your pets, your breakfast… that kind of thing.

Yep, me too. It’s a big job, isn’t it, universal maintenance. Should we learn to let go a little? Maybe. Or maybe not.

Last week I was sick at the same time as my children were sick and that was… challenging… especially as it came on the back of about a month of bad and broken sleep, and descended only two weeks after I’d recovered from a prolonged cough that had racked me to the core.

It felt like forever that I’d been “normal” and when I came downstairs last Friday, still unwell but definitely on the mend and at least able to stand without wobbling and (more important) able to keep down a cup of tea, the first thing I wanted to do was to regain control of my own little universe.

After successfully getting the kids off to daycare (anyone with toddlers knows what a mammoth task that is in its own right), that meant tidying the house so that I could find enough surfaces to clean and scrub the house, following the rigours it had endured of small children being looked after by their father. It meant stock-taking the contents of the ‘fridge, sadly depleted. It meant dusting off the pile of briefing notes and research on my desk, apologetically emailing neglected editors and clients, and writing up a task-list with associated deadlines on my whiteboard.

And so on and so forth. None of those tasks was particularly fun, and not how I wanted to spend my time. How I really wanted to spend my time was in writing and drawing and painting. Or, if I was still too sick to get creative, I wanted to spend my time under a crocheted rug, watching re-runs of Veronica Mars.

But somehow it was enormously satisfying to be putting my own world - ok my universe - to rights. The life I lead right now might be small, to some. It is small compared to my past, even, filled with the domestic mundanity of life with small children and a part-time job that I do from home, trudging through the same kind of writing I was doing more than a decade ago.

But in this little universe, I am Queen. This life is MINE and I have chosen it and I am in charge of it, and that feels GOOD.

Even when I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing something unidentifiable off the playroom floor.

How is your universe holding up?

Lovely, dreamy girl image is by Schlomit Wolf, licensed for unconditional use under Creative Commons

After the party

These photographs are the calm after the storm has passed. The quiet after the chaos.

When your child has a birthday, you want to take a moment. To pause, to remember: "this time last year, this time three years ago, this time 18 years ago…" I don't think the power of that day goes away for a parent, ever. Does it?

Because in that minute, the minute you are remembering, the world gained this new person. If that minute (and all the hard, gruelling, labour-of-love minutes that preceded it) hadn't happened, the universe would now have a completely different personality.

It would have a hole in it that could never be filled, and a regret that nobody could ever understand, and a loss that nobody would ever know how to grieve. The paths of every single person your child has ever met and will ever meet would have been altered, some of them subtly and some of them in extraordinary and powerful ways, but altered nevertheless.

That's the power of a birthday, when you are a parent.

Scout turned three on Tuesday, and I have been waiting for my own moment of reflection. Searching for it, even, in the frenetic, time-spinning events that have made up our hours and days of late. This is the first chance I've had to stop and think and remember, and now I find my thoughts and memories overpowered by my feelings, and I am without words.

"I love you," I tell her every night when I kiss her and put her into bed (and many times throughout the day). "I love you a million, billion, trillion." And she whispers, "To the moon and back?" "Yes," I tell her. "To the moon and back, and then more."

Every day since she was born, every, single, day, I have told her this: "I love you forever." It is because I believe that my love for her will transcend everything. EVERYTHING. Even if I die, my love is and will be stronger than my body. It is my most profound wish that neither of my children will ever live a second without love.

And that's the best I can do about taking a moment. Happy third birthday Scout!

The Passion Planner (and other stories)

Good morning! This is my new diary. It's called a "Passion Planner" which is a dubious name for a fabulous concept. It bills itself as "the one place for all your thoughts," and also "the life coach that fits in your back pack."

The diary is filled with prompts and questions and lists and mind-maps to help you define the life you want and then get there, step by step. The idea is that you can manage your work tasks, your personal tasks, your creative tasks, and all the rest, all in the one place.

This is perfect for me because I'm trying to juggle so many things at once. I write freelance for a number of clients, so I have to keep all their deadlines and meetings and briefings and interviews etc under control. Then there are all the children's appointments, from daycare and music lessons to doctors' visits and vaccinations and play dates and parties. Mr B's work calendar, when it impacts on me because of meetings and missed meals and travel. And of course our own (limited but still it does exist) social life, and some big parties we are planning this year. On top of that, I have this blog and my snail mail and the book I'm illustrating and the books and zines I'm writing and several more dreams in the wings, and I want to keep on top of all of them but also be a little more strategic AND inspired about them. None of those needs and schedules exists in a vacuum, they all impact on one another, so a planner that can hold them all together seems, to me, genius.

I ordered my Passion Planner from here, and got the undated version (because hello May already?), but you can also get proper yearly Passion Planners, and in bigger sizes too if you want to scribble more.

How was your weekend? I know many people think Mother's Day is a commercial construct, but BOY I really enjoyed my day yesterday. Yesterday was like the poster child for everyone who says the Simple Things are the Best Things. Kisses from babies (the big, open-mouthed ones). "Letters" from toddlers. Toasted bagels with cream-cheese for breakfast. Warm salad of pearl couscous, chorizo and roasted vegetables for lunch. Paper-thin crepes rolled up with lemon and sugar for afternoon tea. (Are you beginning to detect a theme here?) Drawing pictures while watching old westerns on TV. Two children racing up and down the hallway, each pushing toy prams, laughing and squealing and yelling "We are going to the Lost City!" And affirmation. So much loving affirmation, from my family.

(Also both children ate all their vegetables and at least some of their tuna for dinner that night, by which time I was pretty much feeling like Mother of the Year.)

We are funny about presents in our house on "days" like this, and on birthdays, and anniversaries. Sometimes we give big, extravagant presents, sometimes we give a card and a kiss, or a meal out. (Sometimes we forget altogether, we are scatty like that). But that's because the love and affirmative words are given freely throughout the year. The gifts are big and extravagant when budgets and time and inspiration allow. They are smaller when budgets or time or lack-of-inspiration dictate. So nobody gets unwanted, pointless presents, only presents that truly mean something, both to the recipient AND the giver. I like it that way.

This year, despite me saying "It's too much," my family bought me not only a voucher for a massage and facial (oh! bliss!) but also a personal lesson from an artist on letterpress type and and line-art plates. And it is too much, really it is, but I've got to be honest, I can't wait to do this class. Do you want some letterpress mail from me? The deal is that if I enjoy it as much as we all THINK I will enjoy it, we will put our money-box savings into buying an antique letterpress at the end of the year. Now that's a generous family, don't you think?

How was your weekend?

A face that only a mother could love

Lately I’ve been thinking about faces that only a mother could love. Or, more precisely, about the origins of that cruel and silly saying, and about how much YOUR mother most likely loves YOUR face*, no matter what your face happens to look like.

Your wrinkles? She is SO PROUD of the decades of life and love that you put in to creating those wrinkles. Pimples? Your mother thinks they are perfect. She can’t believe her little baby is so grown up! Oh, your snaggletooth, it just breaks her heart! It is JUST like the snaggletooth that used to peep out from below your grandfather’s wiry moustache, and it is a powerful reminder to her of family and blood and the inescapable links created by DNA.

I am incapable of seeing my children through a fashion editor’s eyes. Of imposing on them those bizarre, objective, unrealistic attributes that are supposed to combine to create “beautiful,” like long legs, wide eyes and full lips. I look at my baby's chubby little thighs and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything more delicious. Ralph wears a dopey, droopy-eyed expression when he’s tired that makes me want to envelop him in kisses. Scout has short little legs that will probably stop her from ever being long and lean, and I smile with pride every time I see them, because they are just like mine.

My legs, that I have hated for as long as I can remember being aware of legs.

I spent decades wishing my legs were longer and thinner and smoother and more tanned. Yet now I look at my daughter, who appears to have inherited EXACTLY my legs (DNA, baby!) and, on her, I think they are beautiful. Perfect.

This realisation is changing the way I look at everybody. First of all myself. How can I hate my legs, when I see them on my daughter? She certainly doesn’t hate her legs. (She doesn’t hate mine either!) As far as I can tell she doesn’t think about legs at all, in any capacity other than how good they are at running around, and twirling, and splashing in the bath. If someone was to offer to take Scout’s legs off her and replace them with a longer, leaner pair, I would want to scream at them, and thump them, and have them arrested. How could they infer that ANYTHING about her was less than exactly right, or dare to make her feel that way about herself? But if those legs are perfect on Scout, how can I hate them on myself? When Scout is my age, I will still think her legs are perfect, and want to tear apart anyone who would try to tell her she needed to change herself. Maybe, possibly, probably even, my mother feels the same way about MY legs, right now. Ain’t THAT something to think about!

It is also changing the way I think about other people. Not that I’ve ever been one to walk around judging people on their appearances. I have many faults but, thankfully, that isn’t one of them. But now, when I’m absently people-watching, I’ll play a game in my mind where I'll focus on a feature of someone, like their nose. And I'll imagine what that nose must mean to that person’s mother. How their mother must know that person's nose SO WELL in the interior of her mind, how deeply every contour of it is etched in her heart, and how she would change nothing about it. Not one cell.

And so nowadays I look at all the people around me in all their different shapes and sizes and colours and regular and irregular features and all the rest of them, and I think just how much their mothers must ADORE all of those faces and bodies. It’s actually a really fun and special thing to do. Instantly, the guy at the counter when you’re paying for petrol, the middle-aged woman crossing the road ahead of you, the bored-looking secretary at the doctor’s surgery… all of them, seen through the eyes of their mothers and now me, are perfect.

* I’m aware of course that not all families are the same and not all mothers and children have the same relationships that I enjoy with my own mother and with my own children. Not everyone has known the love of their mother and that is tragic and heartbreaking and, if that is you, I am so, so, sorry. Everyone deserves to be loved, unconditionally, from the very beginning. I hope you know deep love, now. Either way, I want you to know that if I ever look on your face, I will be looking at you and imagining mother-love and I will truly believe that you, too, are perfect.

Photo is by Milada Vigerova, licensed under Creative Commons

My people

On the weekend as I walked home with Mr B, pushing the double pram with two tired but happy children whose bellies were full of yum cha and ice cream, we got chatting about “tribes."

That morning I’d spent two hours at the Melbourne Museum in the company of a lovely bunch of women, some of whom I’d met before and others who were relative strangers, although we’d been in touch on Facebook and on blogs and, in most cases, by snail mail.

We were all part of an alumni group of folks who had participated in "Blog With Pip," a month-long online course that helps beginner bloggers get started, and helps more seasoned bloggers shake things up and improve them a bit.

It wasn't the first online course I’d ever done, nor the first group of alumni or otherwise that I’d been part of, but never before, not once since the Internet, had I experienced any genuine desire to “meet up” with members of an online group. But these people I did want to meet. I looked forward to it, and I loved every minute of it. I’ve met up with members of this group before, and I hope I’ll join them at other events in the future.

So as Mr B and I walked home that day, we got to thinking about what made me feel like these were “my people,” and why it was so easy for me to enjoy their company.

In the end, we figured the answer was as simple as “like attracts like.”

I chose to do the Blog With Pip course in the first place, over all the other blogging courses and lessons I could have pursued, because I admired the teacher Pip Lincolne. Her blog Meet Me At Mikes was one of the first blogs I'd ever read (I came across it when she hosted a sail mail project, of all things, in 2010); she is a talented and prolific author; we share similar interests (craft, creativity, colour); and she has a kindness and a sense of ethics and justice that I deeply admire.

I’m assuming a number of other people chose Pip’s course over all the others for much the same reasons, so right there we already had a lot of interests AND life views in common. Easy friendship! Lots to talk about!

It’s nice when you find your people, isn’t it. How do you find YOUR tribe?

Onwards to the pictures.

↑↑ Scout decided at the last minute that she wanted to join me “with the ladies” but then when she got there she was shy. And then she wasn’t.

↑↑ What's going on here is that I’m taking a picture of Pip taking a picture of Carly’s boots. Because, THOSE BOOTS.

↑↑ As we wandered through the indoor/outdoor rainforest, everyone pulled out their cameras to start taking photographs, and I gave Scout my phone so she could take photos too. Here she is taking a groundbreaking close-up of... a pole. She also took this picture of a waterfall using "Mummy's big camera."

↑↑ There is a weird taxidermy room at the Melbourne Museum, which is creepy and educational in equal measure (not pictured here but I'm just saying). I never can quite decide how I feel about it. Also a cluster of indoor windmills. A real Egyptian mummy (so cool!). And this truly bizarre human-map of… um, I can’t remember. Arteries, I think?

↑↑ It’s almost ANZAC Day. A few of us sat down to write remembrance / thank-you notes to men and women who have served in a protective capacity. I wrote a thank-you to my brother-in-law, who sacrificed and lost more than anyone should have to to keep the people of Timor safe.

Meanwhile, the photo at the top of this post is a not-so-shy-anymore Scout, getting a cuddle from Michelle while they looked at butterflies.

ps. Here's a roll-call of who was there, if you want to visit their blogs and say hi. Props to Jacquie from Bird and Fox who created this list - I have shamelessly copied it. You can read her impressions of our outing, and see her lovely photographs, here.

Jacquie - bird and fox Yvette - bear loves dove Emily - squiggleandswirl Carly - Tune Into Radio Carly Pip - Meet Me At Mike's Kate - One Small Life Michelle - Girl Gone Home Also Catherine, who has a blog yet to come (we can't wait!)

Beautiful

Every day I tell Scout she is beautiful. I tell Ralph he is beautiful, too. I don’t mean beautiful on the outside, although through my mother-eyes, I happen to think they are exceptionally good looking kids. I mean they are beautiful souls.

“Beautiful" in our house is an all-encompassing word that means kind, buoyant, loving, affectionate, funny, clever, quirky, creative and, most of all, bringer-of-joy.

“You are so beautiful,” I tell Scout, when she tenderly rocks her baby-doll to sleep saying “shh shh shhhhh, shh shh shhhh," or announces that she is going to twirl for the entertainment of the (blind) dog. “You are so beautiful,” I tell Ralph, when he scrunches up his nose with immeasurable glee because he has climbed onto a chair all by himself, or begs me to dance, or crawls over to the giant teddy and cuddles it with an audible “ahhhh.”

I text Mr B a picture of the children standing side by side at their little blackboard, drawing a duet masterpiece in chalk. “They are so beautiful,” he texts back. And later, on FaceTime, “Scout! Ralph! You are beautiful! When I get home I am going to kiss you and tickle you!”

But lately I’ve been second-guessing myself and my vocabulary. I am bringing up my children in a world that places a premium on physical beauty, and the having or the lack of said beauty is tied to everything from self esteem to bullying to professional success to relationships to personal finances to mental health.

Is it dangerous, I began to ask myself, to raise my children to feel worth from their parents in a loaded word like “beauty?”

“You are so beautiful,” I whispered to Scout last week, as I carried her up the stairs to bed. What I truly meant was, “Your soul shines like a beacon of good in my dark and confused world.” But as I walked back down the stairs alone, I started to panic. What if all she had taken from my words was “You have lovely eyes and your hair is shiny?”

Ultimately, though I think that this is where the combination of language and parenting can be a powerful thing.

Because I have decided that it is OK to tell my children they are beautiful. Often and with punctuation. In fact, I have decided that it is important for me to do this.

For many years to come, my children will learn - from peers, from strangers, from media, from pretty much everywhere - that physical beauty is something to be arduously sought. They will learn this whether I want them to or not, because we do not live in a cave.

But my children are learning their language by immersion, not from a text book. So far, nowhere have they read or been told “The word ‘beauty’ only means ‘looking good’.” So in these first, formative years of their life and language, their experience of the word “beautiful” is teaching them that “beauty,” first and foremost, means “goodness.”

Sometimes Scout pushes my hair out of my eyes and says “Mummy you are so booful,” and I know her words have nothing to do with how I look. She also tells the dog, the cat, her baby dolls, her baby brother and her friend Bella that they are “booful,” again with zero reference to their looks.

While I can’t protect either of my children from what others will tell them in the future, I am laying a linguistic foundation today that I hope will equip them to understand the aesthetic of beauty to be rich and complex and multi-layered.

And soul-deep.

So I will continue to tell my children they are beautiful. Because I want them to feel beautiful, in the full meaning that I have chosen to give that word, and because I want them to learn how to look for the true beauty of people they meet as they go through life.

And when the world starts to load "skinny" or "pouty" or "even-featured" onto their experience of that word, it will already hold, in their minds and hearts, something infinitely more... beautiful.

Image credit: Volkan Olmez, licensed under Creative Commons