I’ve wobbled and almost fallen too many times to count. I worry constantly about whether I’m doing things right, whether David will end up in therapy in twenty or thirty years’ time. I know for sure that I only want to do this once, and I definitely couldn’t do it on my own.
Despite all of this, (and trust me, it’s taken almost fifteen months to get to this point), I love being a mum.
I love the smiles and the giggles, the grin on David’s face when he’s doing something he knows he shouldn’t be. I struggle not to burst out laughing alongside him.
I love holding his hand as he discovers new things, and I secretly delight when he comes running back to me.
I hate it when things aren’t right in his little world, and I love to hold him until it’s better. I adore watching him sleep and hearing him breathe his snuffly breaths, but picking him up as he wakes and feeling him bury his face in my neck is the best thing in the world.
Although they’re frustrating, deep down I relish the tantrums and the challenge they bring.
I love watching David with his daddy: their bond is so different to the bond I share with him, and yet still so achingly beautiful.
I’ve watched my baby turn from a 9lb 3.5oz newborn who cried inconsolably without the help of Infacol,
to a four-month-old whose special skill was fitting an entire foot into his mouth,
to an eight-month-old poser who loved to crawl as fast as he possibly could,
to a VERY SERIOUS one-year-old,
to a fourteen-and-a-half month-old bundle of terror and joy. (Yes, that is a pen in his hand, and no, I don’t know where he got it from.)
I know I’ll look back in eighteen years’ time and wonder even more where that tiny baby went, but right now, I love almost every second of this and I’ll treasure it for ever. I’m going to hold him tight on this Mother’s Day, and for as many more as he’ll let me.
Also? If tomorrow is going to be as good as today, bring it on!
For a while, you were there. Yesterday, you were gone.
For four-and-a-half weeks, to be precise.
Until a few days ago, I didn’t know it, nobody knew it.
I didn’t dare think about you. I told nobody. I’d said, “no more”, “enough”. ”We’re done.” I meant it, too, and I still mean it.
I’ve been here before. It hurt, then. This time I just feel empty and numb. I didn’t want to be here again.
There was nothing I could’ve done to change this. I’m not sure I would have if I could. But still I feel guilty, guilty for thinking and feeling nothing.
I’m going to hold this little boy tight and be thankful for what I have. That is all I can do.
Over the last few days and weeks and months, I’ve been thinking an awful lot about the number one. Specifically, the number of children we have and are planning to have. My mother is constantly asking if we’re planning another. (Having one, apparently, will lead to David becoming spoiled, selfish and antisocial.) My Nana said that we should have a girl next. People assume that, because we’re young and because David is nearly one, we’re ready to start trying for another baby. ”When you have another…”, “Just wait until you have two…” and various phrases along those lines are used regularly.
Here’s the thing. We aren’t going to have another baby. I can say now, without hesitation, that our family is complete.
The road that led to having David was a long, hard one. I had an abortion at fifteen: it was the “right thing to do”. After all, I was clever. I had sixth form, university, a career to look forward to. My previously supportive boyfriend got scared and ran away, and I would’ve been a single teenage mother. I was nine or ten weeks pregnant when my parents discovered it, and had little time to think about the decision: I went along with what they thought was right, because I didn’t know. I couldn’t think, I just couldn’t make the decision. I knew that I wanted qualifications and a career, but I never considered the alternative. I never thought that I could have the baby. I would’ve been about twelve weeks along when I finally had it done, and it hit me harder than I ever imagined it would. I will forever regret that decision.
I hadn’t known until then that I wanted a child. When I’d thought about it hypothetically, I’d reasoned that I’d want to concentrate on having a career, and anyway, noone would commit to me, would they?
Fast-forward a few years. I had put all thoughts of having a baby out of my mind. Joe and I had been together for a few months, and although we were serious, we weren’t quite serious enough to think about babies in anything other than abstract terms.
Well, whoops. One broken condom later…
During my pregnancy, we struggled to adapt to life as a couple, soon to be a family. Friends and family were shocked that we “hadn’t been more careful”. They questioned our decision to continue the pregnancy. (We had discussed it, but it wasn’t an option for either of us after the initial shock had worn off.) A couple we knew had been trying to conceive for a long time, and we both felt guilty about how it would affect them.
I loved David the moment he was born. Everybody did. It didn’t make things any easier. I’ve written about postnatal depression before, and all that needs saying now is that I, we have come through it, mostly, but it was hard. There are times when The Crazy still comes back and slaps me round the face, just to remind me that it’s still here. I don’t want to choose to go back and feel like that again. It’s not fair on Joe or on David.
All the history and the drama aside, there is one overriding reason why I feel we are complete. This.
David is enough, more than enough for me. I don’t have the words to express how much I love him. He learns something new every day, he’s starting to listen and respond to instructions. He’s affectionate and caring and kind. He travels next to me in the car, and we have conversations about traffic lights and slow old ladies in Micras driving in our way. He gets ridiculously excited when he sees the other yellow Seicento that belongs to somebody who lives near us, and when a traffic light turns green he shouts “Go, go, go!” He wouldn’t have this attention with a sibling. He deserves my time, my attention, and all of my love. I cannot offer him anything more.
