“The secret of change is to focus all your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new.” -Socrates

I sit, like every other day, feeding and settling Little One, when the announcement arrives. Little One is now 2 weeks old and the arrival of the new ‘Prince’ has been announced. No, not my prince… the ‘real’ prince! Baby Prince George is presented to the world through the paparazzi lens, and Princess Kate emerges in all her sweet, royal glory. I gaze on in admiration and excitement (and relief that we [ok, more like “I”] bumped “George” off our baby name short-list only weeks earlier. *phew*) She exudes elegance, poise and calm as she faces the scrutinising eyes of the public. She moves swiftly and comfortably. I look at myself, in my exhausted delirium, still wearing my pyjamas, trying to remember if I’ve had a shower yet, thinking: “I wish I was her”. In the same breath I’m relieved that there are no cameras trying to get a glimpse of this current train-wreck. Headlines would read, “Injured Yeti sighted in Sydney suburb with young infant.”

“I hope I look like Princess Kate after I’ve had a baby… oh wait… hmmm… that’s awkward.”

As I pass the “6 week” mark, I’m surprised that my life hasn’t yet gone back to normal as everyone promised. This magical 6 week mark, where normal life recommences. The 6 week mark when celebrities reveal their ‘post-baby bod’. The 6 week mark where gym enthusiasts recommence their combat and yoga classes. The 6 week mark when our bodies should have bounced back to health. I still look pregnant and there is nothing ‘normal’ about anything. I haven’t worked out this motherhood thing yet, pain and aches are a new norm, my body feels like it’s been ruined for good, I have no clothes that fit me, but I am finding myself warming up to this needy little creature.

I remember those forceful jumps during pregnancy as Little One use to hiccup in my stomach; the fear and relief. I’m in awe each time he now hiccups in my arms. It’s surreal; that was in there! I feel my heart leaning towards him often and I’m convinced that he knows me. I watch him all the time. As I check on him for the ten-thousandth time in the hour, it’s clears his wellbeing is my current life purpose. I even poke him at times to ensure he’s still ‘breathing’. I’m assured this is ‘normal’ first-time-mother behaviour. He stares at me differently than others. It sounds crazy, but I feel that he “smiles” at me with his eyes. These claims are often dismissed by others; “he’s too young, it’s probably gas… wishful thinking!” What a way to kill the joy, but I’m convinced he’s telling me something. I’m not going crazy.

Little One at 3 weeks old giving me “that” stare

It’s starting to make a little more sense. I finally understand a bit more of the fuss. Just when I began to think that this misery was my new lot in life, that moment happened. That moment when he looked at me with that same stare, and he smiled at me for the first time.

Little Man, that just made these last few horrendous weeks a little more bearable. The puzzle pieces are slowly beginning to reveal a bigger picture…

The smiles begin!

And then my soul saw you and it kind of went, “oh there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Dear God, I would have loved to have held her on my lap and told her about You, but since I didn’t get the chance, would You please hold her on Your lap and tell her about me?

“Is this your first?” Through clenched teeth, “yes he’s my first”. I’m a first time mum…with first time jitters. First time anxieties. First time quirks. First time stubbornness. First time over-‘preparedness’. First time baby-paraphernalia hyper-overload. First time ‘deer in headlights’. I’m an obvious first-timer.

It’s a time of many firsts. A time of intrigue and wonder… and it’s a time for that commonly asked question by new friends, acquaintances and strangers; “Is he your first?”. You think I’d be over it by now, but every time I’m faced with that apparent simple question, I’m taken straight back to her. I take a deep breath and through my clenched jaw and winded stomach; “yes, he’s my first.”

He’s my first, but he’s not the first to hold my hand.

2012

2013

I’ve come to understand that everyone deals with loss differently. Some deal with it by embracing their new circumstance. They throw themselves into the cause; join the balls and knitting clubs. It’s wonderful. We need those strong, admirable women who want to have their babies remembered. Who want to make others experiences less lonely… and then there’s me. I still don’t like to hear her name. The term ‘angel baby’ and ‘rainbow baby’ makes me cringe. I don’t want to join a club. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to compare notes. The sentiment that she’s still mine doesn’t bring me any peace. Her memory has been reduced to a box. I don’t want to ever look at her photos (note: this is the first time I’ve ever shared this photo. It still makes me feel ill to my stomach when I see it. At least I’m making progress, right?) I’m not a mother of two, like others have told me. It may sound heartless, but I just want to pretend it never happened. It’s all I’ve got energy for. I’m not compelled to help anyone. My answer will continue to be “I’m fine”. So far, my tactic isn’t working. I’m just as broken holding my new Little One as I was just over a year ago, but at least now I have a sleep-depriving distraction.

Regardless, I’ll continue to rehearse and verse the guilt-laced response; ‘He’s my first’. I’m bound to be asked for a good while to come.

“His Grace is sufficient for me for His power is made perfect in my weakness.” – 2 Corinthians 12:9