I'm taking part again in Angie's right where I am project
Here is last year's post on the same theme.
The weather this week has been glorious, hot and sunny, Summer is finally here. Out and about with Ernest and my mindee, I realised I needed a parasol for my double pushchair, and remembered I'd bought one just a few days before Florence was born, but hadn't even taken it out of the packaging.
I couldn't remember where I'd put it, I thought maybe the cellar with the pram frame, but it wasn't there.
I remembered that the carrycot was way at the back of a storage cupboard in our room, and maybe I'd put it there.
When Woody got home, he held a torch over my shoulder as I squeezed into the cupboard and made my way past the bags of breastfeeding (pumping) paraphenalia, and the carrycot for Ernest's pram, the boxes of old college work, and art folders...there right at the back was the old carrycot, and I pulled it out, triumphantly.
I unzipped the cover, and my heart was suddenly ripped right out of my chest. Yes, there was the brand new parasol, but the carrycot was still made up with sheets I'd sewn, and a precious fleece blanket I'd saved and laundered ready for Florence.
I must have put it away like that, two years,ten months ago...or thereabouts.
That little bed made ready for a real live newborn, a real live newborn, a real little girl...not the shadow, the memory, but a real baby, my real baby. My heart pounds out of my chest, into my throat, I can barely breath and the sobs are caught there, stifled. I mustn't do this, I'm fine, it's ok...but it isn't, it isn't.
Last night I dreamed of giving birth. I was standing, I could feel the baby birthing itself, but I couldn't speak to tell the midwives. The baby was born suddenly and fell to the ground. I looked down and there he was, a baby boy. I shut my eyes and screamed no no no, because I knew he was dead. Then though, I knew I was dreaming, and I decided no, he wasn't dead, and he was beautiful. I put him over my shoulder and he opened his eyes. I said "Hey you, I know you".
I woke up confused and scared, and weirdly elated at just having given birth.
I used to love pregnancy and birth, I guess a part of me still does despite everything.
Right where I am today is not right where I was last week, and it wont be right where I am next week either. That's something I've learned to accept. (I think)
Here is last year's post on the same theme.
The weather this week has been glorious, hot and sunny, Summer is finally here. Out and about with Ernest and my mindee, I realised I needed a parasol for my double pushchair, and remembered I'd bought one just a few days before Florence was born, but hadn't even taken it out of the packaging.
I couldn't remember where I'd put it, I thought maybe the cellar with the pram frame, but it wasn't there.
I remembered that the carrycot was way at the back of a storage cupboard in our room, and maybe I'd put it there.
When Woody got home, he held a torch over my shoulder as I squeezed into the cupboard and made my way past the bags of breastfeeding (pumping) paraphenalia, and the carrycot for Ernest's pram, the boxes of old college work, and art folders...there right at the back was the old carrycot, and I pulled it out, triumphantly.
I unzipped the cover, and my heart was suddenly ripped right out of my chest. Yes, there was the brand new parasol, but the carrycot was still made up with sheets I'd sewn, and a precious fleece blanket I'd saved and laundered ready for Florence.
I must have put it away like that, two years,ten months ago...or thereabouts.
That little bed made ready for a real live newborn, a real live newborn, a real little girl...not the shadow, the memory, but a real baby, my real baby. My heart pounds out of my chest, into my throat, I can barely breath and the sobs are caught there, stifled. I mustn't do this, I'm fine, it's ok...but it isn't, it isn't.
Last night I dreamed of giving birth. I was standing, I could feel the baby birthing itself, but I couldn't speak to tell the midwives. The baby was born suddenly and fell to the ground. I looked down and there he was, a baby boy. I shut my eyes and screamed no no no, because I knew he was dead. Then though, I knew I was dreaming, and I decided no, he wasn't dead, and he was beautiful. I put him over my shoulder and he opened his eyes. I said "Hey you, I know you".
I woke up confused and scared, and weirdly elated at just having given birth.
I used to love pregnancy and birth, I guess a part of me still does despite everything.
Right where I am today is not right where I was last week, and it wont be right where I am next week either. That's something I've learned to accept. (I think)
