Well this has been an extraordinary time. I have achieved more and achieved less in so many different ways than I had ever thought possible. I have kept my sanity (barely) after 8 weeks of anxiety, hormones, drug-addled hysteria and aching EVERYTHING threatened to rip it from me without a ‘by your leave’. I have managed to shower most days and be dressed before 1pm most of the time.
I wrestled with breastfeeding, I wrestled a wide variety of absorbent things, I wrestled with babygroes, I wrestled with the guilt of failing to breastfeed, I wrestled with laundry, baby, muslin and bottle at 4am. I have begun to come to terms with the road traffic accident that is giving birth and remain in awe of the achievement that my body went through, with me the unwilling passenger along for the ride.
I have started to look at the little snarfling creature lying in the moses basket, from which I once addled my own mother, as a little person who I created. She borrowed me for a little while to grow and develop, and I’m going to help her out doing some more growing and developing for a little while longer. She’s not mine so much as my responsibility, which is a distinction I’m getting my head around.
I haven’t picked up needles in ANY form (knitting, crochet, hand or machine) for over 8 weeks and boy am I starting to really miss it. However, I did grab a mini-moment to allow my creative juices to flow (well trickle) into action to welcome the arrivals of the other babies from the local antenatal classes.
I am learning to allow someone else to dictate the pace at which I stumble through my days and I fear this will be good for me. I’m choosing what to do in the rare moments that she sleeps and that choice is fascinating to me each time: I am writing this post, I am drinking hot chocolate, I am going to read this magazine and I am making these flapjacks.
I am a mummy. And she and I will understand what that means a little bit more clearly every day.