“Everyone has a chapter they don’t want to read aloud. Don’t let those pages write the rest of your story. Find the magic in them and move on.”

I haven’t written here for a long time. I was thinking that maybe this ‘Mummy Wagon’ chapter is coming to an end. It’s done its time. It’s served its dues. 

So instead, I decided to do something different. My eldest had started ‘big school’, my youngest is now 2. I felt like I needed a challenge.

I spend the next 18 months immersed in words, research and assignments. It’s gloriously painful. Thrillingly frustrating. 

Testing. Rewarding. Draining. Exhilarating. 

I’ve written more than 65,000 words that only one set of eyes will ever read. I attain my Master’s Degree with a sigh of relief and a renewed sense of freedom. Yet, the mind seeks more. 

What now?

The world decides to take a peculiar turn. It tilts a little too far on its axis. The world turned upside down. The holiday is cancelled. Graduation is abandoned. A giant magnifying glass is forced into our hands, asking us, “what do you really want?”…

… and here we find ourselves. Welcome to Chapter 4. 

It’s a warm hug. A pat on the back; ‘well done’. The cheers and toast. The celebration and commemoration. It’s laced with memory. gratitude. newness. adventure. bravery. joy… and stories… oh, the stories.

The crazy, funny, loving, warm stories. Laughter – oh – the laughter, but also the tears. It’s friendship. It’s belonging. It creates a space for me. Spaces in places I feel I don’t belong. It’s romanticised. Idealised. Smooth and soothing. Sophisticatedly satisfying. Sing me your lullaby. Play me that melody. The one that hums to me… hums through me… gently.

And then there is the numbing. The escape. The pieces it pulls apart from me. The constant mind-ticking is paused. Deliciously quiet. The ramblings still. Am I finally breathing? Is that a sigh of relief or was it a gasp for air?

But it creates a place for me. A space for me. A perfect silhouette for me. A lonely friend. A busy mother. A tired wife. Here – drink of me and I’ll give you rest. “Still the mind”, it whispers. “You deserve this”, it chimes. Remember the times: the stories of laughter and celebration. The tales of bravery and adventure. The newness of love. They’re still in your reach – mother & wife- they can still be found.

But it sells me lies. It steals my mind, instead of stilling it. The contentment is lost, and all that is left is ritual and routine. An act of reward for getting through another day. Measly payment for a measly existence. But it is the liquid courage, it’s cultural, it’s social lubricant, it’s the life of the party, it’s my ticket in, it’s the thing we do, enjoy, need, want, desire. My vice I love and loathe. Find me my place. Show me that I belong – here, there, anywhere.

But it is not us with the problems. We are the people of the grey. We are the bleedings of the white and black. We are the smudges. We are smears not defined within the lines. We are the functional, the productive, the achievers. There are no cataclysmic events of revelation, only gentle moments of awakening. We are measured. We can exercise choices. We can stop at any time, and yet, the nagging, the pull, the undying internal stirring continues – because we are the grey. The grey yearns for more.

This is not a call to arms; put down your pitch fork. This is not to mirror your own internal battles; your path is different to mine. This is not a cry for help; it’s simply an edit.

Reread and edit. Reread and edit. Add, remove, insert, include, elaborate, summarise, delete – rewrite.

We have gone without each other for weeks, months, even years… yet after each reunion I’m even more certain: you add no value. No value for me, for them, for us, for connection, for health. So, I’m rewriting this chapter. I choose to write a new version; to embrace the now, to create that place for me, a space for me, the silhouette of me… where I belong… without you.

Cheers.

“Your life is your story. Write well. Edit often.”

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“These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb.” –Najwa Zebian

I whisper to myself, “put them down.” I know better, but I cling on tighter. The muscles in my hands are strained and my shoulders are tense. I’m holding my breath; “But I can carry it.”

They are mountains. The mountains of control. The mountains of doubt and disappointment. They are mountains of boredom and loneliness. They are mountains of, “it’s not supposed to be like this.” They are mountains of martyrdom. Mountains of change. Mountains of fear. Mountains of motherhood.

My arms are filled with pebbles and boulders. A juggling act, perfected. My mountains give me purpose; they give me a cause. They give me something to talk about. They give me a reason to grieve. They are my badge of significance. “Look how big my mountain is…”

“You who are weary, cast your cares on Him and He will give you rest.”

I hear it, but I continue to hold my breath. I still have mountains to move. Highlands to bear. They are part of me. Can’t you see how important this mountain is? It’s heavy and insurmountable. My arms are full. There is no seeing above or beyond… but the whisper strikes again in quiet force;

“Put it down.”

I hesitantly let them slip through my fingers. My anticipation of a crashing avalanche of rock and stone, was instead met with stillness. The world was still moving. Humming. But this time there was a view, a horizon, sights of magnificence and awe. I could see above and beyond. I could appreciate how far we’d come. It was light. I could breath. I noticed others climbing as they soaked in the panorama of the mountain, using their free hands to help others. But there were also those, those like me, striving upward while picking up every rock and stone on the way… trying to carry their mountain.

I wave my arms and shout, “Put them down. We are free!” But the boulders were keeping them busy. “Look how big my mountain is…”

Is this why we feel so weighed down? Are we carrying things that are not meant for us? Are we collecting things that don’t add value? What do you need to let go of? Maybe it’s time to take a deep breath, open our hands, and surrender our cares and worries to “The Mountain”.

Something shiny catches my eye. I stoop down and pick up the little handful of glistening stones. They fit perfectly in my hand.  I whisper ever so faintly,“put them down…”

 I hide them in my pocket…“I can carry it.”

“It’s not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” –Sir Edmund Hillary

“Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter.”

– African Proverb

 “Through the narrow, dark tunnels, she ran. Her gaze was skewed as her glance violently darted back and forward; up and down. There were flickers. Light. Or was it gold? She didn’t stay long enough to distinguish. She was searching. Hunting. It was a pursuit. She climbed up the cave wall. It was dull – damp – dark.

 She was racing. She felt the mud on her hands and knees. She tried to rub them clean, but it only spread the muck. Another flicker. Was that light? She felt the warmth of the water. No time to look down. It was elation and emptiness all rolled into one. She knew what was to come. The fire. The flood. The open spaces, laced with tunnels. She ran…”

I blinked and suddenly realised it had been a whole 9 months since I wrote for myself. In that time, there hasn’t been any dark wells or bottomless pits. Just questions. Tunnels. Richness and emptiness. Fullness and loneliness. The thrilling and the ordinary. Tired. Bored. Restless. I’ve been searching, again, for something. Could it be happiness?

I did a quick google search, “what is happiness”. The words jumped out on the screen.

happiness

ˈhapɪnəs/

noun

1. the state of being happy.

“she struggled to find happiness in her life”

Struggled. She struggled to find happiness in her life. It hit me. Is the pursuit of happiness killing us?

“She ran. This was as much as a chase, as it was a pursuit. She was running after it, but also running from it. The echoes called behind her; “you don’t belong here. You’re doing it wrong.” She’d turn, glimpse back and then run faster. The trudging footsteps muffled the reverberations from behind. But fatigue set in, often, and the trail was getting tedious. It was the same old fire, leaving fresh new scars each time. The same flood waters rising and receding. The same curving, muddy tunnels.

Then she noticed. It was a flicker of light. Or maybe it was gold. But suddenly, the two little sets of prints, struggling to keep up, illuminated. By now, she was exhausted. Flooded by the emptiness and loneliness. The pursuit of happiness was a never-ending chase. She stopped and sat in the words as they finally consumed her; “What are you doing? You don’t belong here.” But the screaming echoes she’d been desperate to escape, soon became a faint whisper.

He tugged on her arm, “mummy, you can’t stay here.”

There was mud on their hands and knees. They didn’t seem to care. They were completely unaware of the darkness. So she stopped running and walked for a while. She’d finally slowed down enough to notice the flicker of light visiting more often. She would see it brighten their faces with intrigue. A spark of joy. The light faded, but the feeling lingered, a little longer each time.

And together, they’d climb through the tunnels. She started becoming aware of the details on the walls that she hadn’t noticed before. The sounds. The smells. She breathed. She started leaving her own markings on the walls. I was here. She started to become less aware of the mud on her hands and knee; less aware of the darkness, dampness and dullness. She’d sometimes hear an echo call behind her; “you don’t belong here. You’re doing it wrong.” But she’d stop and let it catch up to her until her truths spoke louder.

But soon there would be fire, but this time, she revealed to them her own scars, told them her stories and showed them how best not to get burnt. “I’ve been here before.”

And when the waters rose, she held them high and taught them how to swim. She reassured, “the waters will move. I’ve seen it before.”

And sometimes she’d just stare at the mud. She’d stare into the darkness and feel the damp. But she’d never stay there.

She still didn’t know where she was going, but she finally knew what she was doing. And if she looked long enough, the light (or was it gold?), could be found everywhere she went. She now had the knowing that one day, the tunnels and fires and waters, will be left to navigate for those she once walked with….

and she wondered, “have I left more gold than I have mud?”

 I’m so tired of this pursuit of happiness. It’s fleeting and tasteless. I haven’t mastered the practice, but I’m seeking for each day to show me purpose. Happiness will not complete us, but just maybe, in the pursuit of purpose, there you will find your gold.

“Wherever your heart is, there you will find your treasure.” – Matthew 6:21

“Stop thinking about everything so much. You’re breaking your own heart.”

It is often implied to new parents that the trials and tribulations of raising your first-born are ‘self-induced’. It’s a rite of passage. I listened to these ramblings about projected anxieties and all that comes with being a first-time novice. “It’s meant to be hard. Welcome to parenthood.”

With this in mind, I would often feel perplexed observing other first-time ‘novice’ parents. While others lapped up the joys of new-life, we wrangled a fiery ball of complete unpredictability for at least the first 4 months. While others strived in their new roles, we felt like utter failures in our human abilities with our newborn. While others planned for consecutive children in close succession, we debated whether we could manage looking after an inquisitive toddler, while re-living the utter sleep and life-depriving months we endured. If we continued to listen to this ‘apparent’ consensus, we would have to agree that we’re clearly not skilled for this or have brains-enough to work this out. Why didn’t the ‘tricks’ work for us, as they did for others? Comparison… the thief of joy.

It wasn’t until my second-born arrived that I understood. Babies can be like Chalk and Cheese. I understand that we’re more experienced and more confident second-time around, as opposed to the initial shock in transitioning from our self-serving pre-child life. Of course, as parents we can project our own issues and anxieties on our offspring at any stage, at any age and on any birth order, however, I cannot accept that this is the only reason that we struggled so much first-time around.

Considering this, I’d like to introduce you to my Chalk and Cheese.

My Chalk arrived traumatically into the world with a screaming set of lungs. The screaming lasted for the next 4 months. He slept through the night for the first time at 10 months. Chalk refused a dummy, but found euphoric comfort in milk! His eyes would roll in the back of his head in complete bliss and he would often fall asleep after feeds throughout his babyhood. Chalk always had the hiccups in utero, which continued throughout his new-life as a daily occurrence. His skin was sensitive to certain chemicals, materials and foods, whilst sporting an epic metabolism. He was your stereotypical “colic” baby.

On the other hand, My Cheese slept and fed predictably from day one and began ‘sleeping-through’ consistently from week 8. As some people would try to imply, we literally didn’t do anything differently. The same “5-S’s” method, which would often take hours of persistence and ‘tag-outs’ in the early days, just seemed to instantaneously work this time! All the ‘tricks’ functioned as promised (unlike our attempts with Chalk). Cheese loves his dummy and never had the hiccups. He always seemed to become energised after feeds and happily spewed to the excess! His skin doesn’t react to anything (not even hotel soap!). He doesn’t eat anywhere near as much as what Chalk did (however eats everything he can find off the floor), but is off the charts in size. He is your stereotypical happy-go-lucky textbook baby.

Chalk and Cheese!

With both experiences now under our belt, we are so grateful that our Chalk came first. I could only imagine the complete exhausting shock and horror at having a calm, predictable Cheese baby lulling us unsuspecting parents into a false sense of security… then BAM! Being overcome with surprise in navigating the Chalk, while working out all the ups and downs of Toddlerhood on top of it all.

So mum (and dad), if you feel like it is really hard, it probably is! You can’t compare your Chalk baby experience to another’s Cheese. Some babies cry… an awful lot. Some have allergies and intolerance. Some are sickly. Some are cuddly. Some are reserved. Some require extra assistance. Some require more helping hands. Some babies are Chalk. Some babies are Cheese. Some babies are a variety in-between. It’s called temperament. It’s called life. It’s called newborn baby.  But remember, before you know it, you’ll be looking back on the newborn season through distant lenses. It is but a blink in the scope of life. Regardless of what your experience has been, these seasons of baby and motherhood are only a tiny part of the magnificently messy, intriguing and expanding adventures they lay ahead. The colourful lines, curves, shades and twirls of Chalk, amongst the range, fragrance and textures of Cheese; this can only add more vivid contrasts to our tapestry… and create an avenue to share more kindness and compassion to our fellow mothers.

My fiery Chalk has grown into a grounded love that radiates justice and is a considered presence of thoughtfulness. My Cheese remains my heightened calm who exudes empathy and mischief, with rhythm beating through his veins.

My perfect blend of Chalk & Cheese.

“You don’t drown by falling in the water. You drown by staying there”

My Chalk & Cheese

“You never look good trying to make someone else look bad.”

I have scored a room to myself, and the cranky nurses seem to be leaving me alone. Besides feeling like I’ve been snap-kicked to the guts every time I stand, I’m doing quite well. I’m breastfeeding, so I haven’t been yelled at this time. I understand the advantages and it’s hard not to get wrapped up in the overbearing messages. It’s an obvious overcompensation of the medical sectors boo-boos for not cultivating a ‘healthy’ view of how to feed babies over the last 100 years. It’s a confusing world. Breast is best. We get it. But formula is also lifesaving-ly awesome too.

We know breastfeeding is an extension of birth, with the amazing let-down of prolactin and oxytocin hormones to create a little love bubble nest for mum and bub. From the voices I’d heard since my first son was born, it didn’t work out for me because I did something wrong. It’s my fault. It’s a learnt skill. I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t informed enough. Good intentions from successful breast-feeders often felt like a slap in the face, as they would sympathise, “yes, it’s hard.” I could only interpret this as, “it’s hard and can only be mastered by the willing and brave, the persistent and committed.” Funnily enough, he thrived on formula, but I still feel like I have something to prove. This is what the tribe call the out-workings of ‘Mother Guilt’.

I book to see a lactation consultant while still pregnant. It wasn’t helpful. She talked at me about sleep patterns for 40 minutes, but I’m booked to see her again the day before my scheduled birth, the afternoon he is born and also in the days before being discharged. For those next 3 appointments my assigned lactation consultant is a no show. The nurses can’t find her, however, Little One feeds and sleeps, unlike my previous hungry, screaming ball that was my first born son. The midwives guide me and say he is latching perfectly. I’m praised for doing so well. Maybe I’ve got the hang of it this time? See, I’m willing and brave, persistent and committed!

He’s lost more than 10% of his weight so I’m asked to keep waking him to feed. All seems to be ok, however, once discharged the familiar agonising feeding pains emerge. He sleeps a lot, poos consistently and I have plenty of milk. I’m well informed. I execute the feeding practice with textbook precision. I’m not stupid. My God, it hurts. Visiting nurse, who is also a trained lactation consultant, says he’s losing too much weight. He’s sleeping a lot due to jaundice, so needs to feed more often. It hurts. She says, “keep going.” Lactation classes are full until after Christmas, sorry. I’ll call during the week to see how you are. No call.

By now I’m bleeding and sobbing through feeds. Where is my amazing love bubble nest? It occurs to me that it must have been hurting all along, but was being masked by my amazing concoction of pain meds while in hospital. I can’t latch him at all without shrieking in pain. This is exactly what happened last time! I exclusively pump for days, to heal what is broken and freeze any excess supply, along with using all the tricks; lanolin, expressed milk, air drying, nipple shields. I don’t get it. It is moving from hard to impossible. I join the Facebook groups for tips and tricks and emerge with the same conclusion. This has nothing to do with smarts or will. For some, this process is easy. For others it can be tricky, but achievable. Heck, where do I fit?

I decide to exclusively pump. I join the groups again and admire the tenacity of those who continue to provide nourishment when they struggle with the ‘feeding process’. Pumping works and feels brilliant. I have enough milk, and little love bubble nest returns. I try to feed the traditional way again, but each time I’m met with the same result. I could punch my fist through a wall.

I try to keep this up but I’m met with an overwhelming feeling of “I can’t do it all”. Looking at my toddler craving his mum, and a new little bub who just wants to be snuggled, I’m possessed by the pumping regime. I cry into hubby’s arms, defeated once more. I can’t do this. It’s not supposed to be like this. Why won’t it just work.

Robin Barker states, “There’s a common myth that mothers ‘choose’ not to breastfeed. In my experience – 30 years helping women to breastfeed – very few women make a deliberate choice not to breastfeed… A significant number of women experience painful, ongoing problems that never get resolved. They are often subjected to a barrage of conflicting advice, or alternatively left to their own devices wondering why it’s all so hard.”

If we’re going to be informed, let’s do this properly. Breastfeeding initiation is not the issue (90% of mothers intend and initiate breastfeeding). Duration is. Let’s get real about being informed. Women have always sought assistance in feeding, recorded as early as 2000BC and ‘lactation failures of the mothers’ recorded in writing since 1550BC. These issues are not new, however, instead of passing our babies to a family member or neighbour to help feed, we are now doing it all alone. Or instead of taking the risk using milk alternatives, animal milks or pap and panada, we now have science! Want to be informed? Just look up wet nurses, clay, wood and ceramic feeding vessels, linen clothes and sponges feeding, cow horns, pewter bubby-pots, pap boats! Want to be more informed? Check out infant mortality rates. The difference now is we have a safe alternative, which was unfortunately and mistakenly exalted above breastmilk over the last century, hence the clear tensions now between the two. They should be working together, but instead, they’ve become arch nemeses.

As the hormones shift, I begin to mourn losing this extension of birth. Baby blues set in as I feed little one the last bottle of expressed milk. ‘Mother Guilt’ rears its ugly head again, “you’re clearly not willing and brave, persistent and committed.”

The waves of feminism have opened up opportunities for women, but in doing so, we are expected to ‘do it all’ and we ‘do it all’ alone. I hold absolute admiration for my friends who feed their bubs exclusively. I admire my friends who admitted that they couldn’t do this alone. I admire my friends who made a choice right for them, in a world that seems to demand every inch of us. Breast is best, but in a society where motherhood is now an act of solitude, pointing the fingers and blaming the mothers isn’t the answer. We need motherhood community and better relationships, not another slogan. And maybe next time one of those intentionally divisive ‘feeding’ articles come up, just remember that the hurtful comments are generally from mothers looking for their own validation, clearly in the wrong place. It’s clear that we’re all trying to navigate this motherhood ride, and many doing it without a village.

And with that in mind, go in peace. Things done in love are done well…

…. and you’ve done exceptionally well.

“I bottle-fed, and I breastfed, and before I knew it, they were all eating stale french fries off the floor of the minivan, and I was like, whatever, thanks for cleaning.”

Don’t like it. Read the signs. Cheeky boy.

There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen. -Rumi

Has the story nearly come full circle? The answers I’d be longing for since the beginning of this Mummy Wagon tale, had unexpectedly come to light. I was resigned to the fact that I’d just never know, however, the questions of ‘why?’ continued to flood with no resolve. For the first time I can say with full certainty… this isn’t how it’s meant to be.

After each obstetrician appointment, my ‘positive-birthing confidence’ would be eroded just that little bit more. I was just another number. I’m just another pleb in the public health system; “move along, we have more important things to do.” I’m a ‘second’ time mother. I’m expected to already know what I’m doing. As the date moves closer, I cannot fathom going through another delivery and recovery as last time (My Story Begins Again; 07.07.13). But I’ve heard the stories of empowerment. How your second birth can mend all that was once broken. This was meant to be my season of redemption. This is meant to be my story of healing. After each plea for reassurance, I am met with the same medical jargon and statistics; “vaginal deliveries are the safest with the quickest recovery.” I’d question, “but what about last time?” No answer. That is the end of the discussion. Do your duty, women. The fingers are pointed at me. I tell myself, you must be mentally unstable. Exaggerator. A light-weight. Hypochondriac. For some of us, this is just how it’s meant to be. They haven’t said otherwise… I try to bury the fear.

Why won’t anyone just listen.

But grace.

I’m 37 weeks pregnant and attending my last scheduled doctors appointment at the hospital. I reveal a glimpse of my impending doom to a midwife in passing. She gives me a warm nudge that reignites the deep fire that had slowly been diminishing. I’m tired of the constant drag of fear. I’m at wits-end with the lack of empathy, explanation, or support from these obstetricians. I have to keep reminding myself that they too are ‘human’, regardless, I’m ready to battle.

I can’t be ignored any longer. I dig my heels in and tell the doctor with full certainty, “I’m not delivering this baby.”

With this stern declaration, I’m rescheduled to see a specialist obstetrician. She comes with the weapon of fear to push me back in-line. She comes with an aura of superiority. She talks down at us. She speaks over us. She points her finger at us. “Do your duty, uneducated women.” She didn’t need to say the words. The message was thickly suffocating.

I’m trusting my gut.

“I’m not delivering this baby.”

I appear at the hospital for the third time in the week. Specialist obstetrician number 2. As we wait, I’m called over by two senior midwives. They are perplexed by the nature of the appointment as they pull out my file; MOD meeting (Mode of Delivery). The midwife from earlier in the week walks by with a grin, “oops, that’s my fault.” I think I have finally found an ally.

The midwives ask ‘why?’

But grace.

They listen.

With expressions of horror and intrigue, they sift through my file and begin to piece together the story.

By their expressions and explanations of the could-haves, should-haves and would-haves, it’s clear that they’re frustrated with the system. A system where the real masters are the servants. They continue to talk in waves of injustice, frustration, anger and with sympathetic sadness. They reassure with warmth, “You certainly could have a natural birth, but you are now too far gone. This could have been so much different,” along with the clear message, “You need to have a positive experience this time.” 

It’s explained to me for the very first time that Little One was posterior. I should have been positioned differently. The progression and decisions made thereafter were all ‘troubleshooting’. I should have been assisted. I shouldn’t have been made to push for so long. The delivery was ‘emergency’ in nature. His head was in the wrong positon and at the wrong angle. His injuries could have been so much more significant. The vacuum was placed on the wrong part of his head. I had suffered a suspected dislocated coccyx. I had no adequate aftercare. My tear and stitches were significant. My previous loss and birth-experience should have been taken into consideration in establishing continuity of care. I should never of had a student-nurse for my appointment.  I should have had adequate follow-up after a traumatic birth experience. My recovery was in no way usual or normal.

I should feel angry.

But grace.

I’m called into the appointment. After this influx of information, I finally feel at rest. The giant bolder that has been sitting on my chest has finally been rolled away. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t normal. I hadn’t gone completely mad. I’m not a light-weight. All my concerns have finally been validated and all the loose ends of ‘why?’ answered.

I feel like I have finally been heard.

As the doctor looks at me from across the room, I now feel I have nothing left. I can’t explain myself anymore. I think I’m finally done fighting.

And then there was grace.

One of the midwives who had just divulged all this new information sat with us and pleaded my case to the final obstetrician. I didn’t have to utter a word. She explained eloquently everything I’d been trying to resolve for the last 3 years, and even more desperately, over the last few months since becoming pregnant again. She carries me in her words as she insists to the doctor, ‘This is completely our fault.“

She was my grace.

The doctor points her finger at me. I’m expecting a retaliation but instead she exudes understanding and compassion, “I assure you, you will be fine. This will be nothing like last time.” And with a warm smile, a wink and one swift signature, there was grace.

A week later, our little bundle of multiplying love entered the world via Elective Caesarean Section, in a room full of joyful conversation and jovial laughter, by a warm team of people and a down-to-earth, kind-hearted doctor.

With a thick mop of hair, a hearty cry and weighing a hefty 4.18kg & 57cm, we were met with utter overwhelming calm.

As Little One is taken away with hubby and I’m wheeled into recovery, I’ve finally surrendered the should-haves, could-haves and would-haves. As my expected 20 minute post-op recovery drags into it’s 3rd hour while waiting for a bed in the maternity ward. As the nurses impatiently continue to call for answers and profusely apologise for the prolonged separation from Little One, I feel no angst. I feel no restlessness. I feel no hostility. All I feel is the saturation of that one little word…

grace.

Is this now my season of redemption? Will this now be my story of healing?

But there is grace… Meeting Little Man

“Ah, kindness. What a simple way to tell another struggling soul that there is love to be found in the world.”

“Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” – Roald Dahl

He brought with him a love that bends time. A love that tests all resolve with the same conclusion; I’d lay my life down for you. A love that is imperfectly perfect. It is exhausting and exciting. Confusing and victorious. It heals and binds. It changed me.

Love. I hear of it’s magic. It has unconditional powers. It has the ability to make the world, or break it. It can conquer all. It never fails. It can increase and overflow. It can drive out all fear. It can multiply.

Little One rubs his hands over my belly and radiates adoration and excitement. I look at him and question, can this love really be multiplied?

As he sends kisses to ‘his baby’ with declarations of love for our little tribe… as I process the idea of being a mother of 2…  as we wait for the arrival of this multiplying love… I wonder, maybe the magic has already begun…

38 weeks

“You are my blue crayon, the one I never have enough of, the one I use to colour my sky.”