So, the most incredible thing has happened.
On the 21st of October something I only dreamed of, something my heart hoped for, but something my brain always told me to try and keep grounded about happened.
Like so many people, we’d been trying for a few years and the fear and finality of the journey were always caught in my throat.
But our little man arrived safe and well and beautiful (I guess all mums say that don’t they) and now we never want to stop holding him.
I remember so clearly the night he was born; staying awake till the morning, keeping one hand on him to make sure his chest was still rising up and down as his first breaths rushed through his little lungs and to make sure I could feel the tiny pulse of his heart beating as he gently settled into the world.
I watched and watched and from time to time his fragile eyelids snuck open to try and understand what was happening, sometimes he made funny little gurgles, or sucked on his bottom lip or grabbed onto my finger so tight; but mostly he was quiet and just nestled into my chest or the blankets in his cot.
The beating of my own heart that night felt like a huge grandfather clock and the tick-tock so heavy and loud I thought for sure it would keep him awake.
I look at him now and know that I love being his Mum. I know the shapes his face makes as he tries to wake up, the dark grey ring around his big blue eyes, the dark blue veins that run under his fair hair and skin so pale it’s like Irish Belleek China. I know the size of his ears and the little rolls of skin that fold on his neck. I know how his second toe is longer than his big toe (like his Dad). I know he has little muscles in his arms like an AFL player and I know he gets little boogers in his nose that nearly block his whole nostril.
I know his eyes so well, but most of the time I struggle to understand what they are trying to tell me, or what the tears mean. It’s those eyes that stay in my mind as I lie in bed at night, what are they trying to communicate and what do they need?
I find myself crying most days. Is it a form of post natal depression? I have no idea. But a lot of the time they are happy tears, happiness so big that it takes over my breathing, swells in my throat and clouds my eyes.
I cry over beautiful songs that now seem to have new meaning and even news stories that break my heart. Before I would watch tv news bulletins and listen to radio news and either think or talk about the different stories, or even laugh or complain about something stupid that was in or a part of the story. Now so many of the stories are too sad or horrible to listen too.
Will all this increased sensibility go away? Who knows? I’m not the first and won’t be the last mother to feel all awash in a sea of emotions.
It has changed the way I feel about my Mum and what she much went through. The sacrifices she made and the lack of support.
From the terrible conditions at the hospital where one nurse instead of giving her the gas to help reduce the pain of childbirth instead sucked it down for himself, the lifelong damage and pain a badly inserted epidural caused and no support whatsoever with breast feeding.
I know we’re incredibly lucky to have received the support we did from the wonderful midwives at Tamworth Base Hospital.
For years I found it so difficult to listen to interviews or read articles about people trying to have babies, and acknowledge the at times overwhelming pain those commentaries caused, so I’m sharing this only to tell a little personal story of what the last 12 weeks have been like.
So, the most incredible thing happened, I became a Mum, my husband became a Dad, we became parents, our little family of two grew into three and it has changed everything.