Heart beats fast
Colors and promises
How to be brave?
How can I love when I’m afraid….?
My eldest turned 10 last week.
Ten years old.
One whole decade of being a parent. Of loving, caring and protecting for another person and putting their needs above my own.
You would think I would be introspective or something? Maybe take a moment to dwell on the milestone or think about what could have been or yada yada yada.
I did none of that. Not sure why. Just didn’t.
But today… well today is the 11th, and it’s the day she was due to be born. And for some reason with every year that passes I take note of this day, as the day we don’t celebrate her arrival. Weird really.
I thought that I was actually a little over it this year; just enjoying the actual day and not thinking about this random date etched in my memory forever, but I guess I’m not. I guess I’m not that over anything.
Since having little Miss Ava, I cannot hear another birth story. I don’t like to read them, and the conversations that centre around them at playgroup, have me running for the hills. In fact, I find it much easier to avoid expecting mothers at all really, in the fear that this exact topic might come up.
I just don’t want to talk about it.
But lately, I keep having dreams I’m pregnant. Over 5 in a couple of weeks. Last night I actually had the baby, and was trying to work my shifts around her feeding schedule. It was weird, and crazy and yet so realistic all at once. It’s enough to have me reaching for a pregnancy test (although it’s technically not even possible.)
Add to this, that the kids were asking the other day about when they were born. Did they cry or were they happy? Taylah wore pride at her relaxed state considering a fairly stressful birth. Bridie laughed at the fact that she pooed straight after birth, and both her and I required immediate showers. We all had a giggle at little BJ, weeing on the midwife as she took his temperature.
No one asked about Ava.
I was glad.
I don’t like to talk about Ava.
For as much as I will treasure the day of her birth, with every fibre of my being, I also hate that day. Never have I ever been in such a dark place as those moments leading to her birth. Never have I come so close to losing who I am, and who she could have been.
I have died everyday waiting for you
Darling don’t be afraid I have loved you
For a thousand years
I’ll love you for a thousand more
And yet, talk about it I must.
When I wrote my book a few years ago, I just wrote and that was it. It’s a diary, with a beginning an end, and a random amount of life stuff in the middle. It seemed only logical that I continue on in sequal form, with the addition of baby number four. In my mind it would be a a humours look at preganancy and bringing in a new baby to an already fairly large family.
How wrong I was.
I started that second diary when I was 26 week and four days pregnant, and in hospital at risk of preterm labour. A risk that never eventuated (spoiler alert), but which had me on bed rest for weeks, watching as the size of my thighs expanded, and the strength of my spirit diminished. That pregnancy broke me in every way, and yet it made me a better person.
I love and loathe that time of my life with such a passion.
Needless to say my humorous sequel is not humorous. At all. It’s raw and honest and real, and currently sitting in a handwritten pink notebook, waiting for me to take the leap and convert it to digital form. A leap, I think I’m finally ready to take.
It seems crazy I know. The first book has only sold 24 copies, so why on earth would I even start planning for the sequel? That’s kind of the definition of stupidity right there. But for me, the answer is simple. Cause whilst I have not reflected much on ten years of parent hood, or discussed the size of placenta’s with the ladies at playgroup, I have been thinking about passion and purpose. And one thing I am certain of, is that ten years ago, when I became a mum, I was on the road to becoming who I’m meant to be. I am passionate about motherhood; I am purposeful about parenting. I believe in what we parents do; I think it is vital in making the world a better place, and I believe the journey needs to be shared. The highs the lows, the light and the dark.
But for me to be able to share the ups and downs of other’s stories, I need to embrace the pain of my own. Face that fear, and take a step in the right direction. Whether I ever publish this manuscript or not, is irrelevant. Moving forward however, is not.
I can’t be this person any more; I refuse to be. I will get better, and stronger so that I can love more passionately, and more purposefully.
Become more and more and of who I am and who I can be.
Each day, one step closer.
Time stands still
Beauty in all she is
I will be brave
I will not let anything take away
What’s standing in front of me
Every hour has come to this
One step closer