“Never let the urgent stand in the way of the important.”

I was thinking of maintaining updates of the tales of my continued hospital saga and the encounters with the various obstetricians along the way; the horrors and the victories. A month by month recap… an overview of our public system this time ‘round. The ebbs and flows that come again with each scan, at each appointment. I was thinking of keeping an update of the back and forth between confidence and empowerment, and the many retreats to defeat and dread.

But the truth be told, I’m actually ok. The elation and frustration. The angst and triumphs. It’s all paving a way for something new.

 “For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.

So collapse.

Crumble.

This is not your destruction.

This is your birth.”

I’d heard time and time again that every pregnancy can be different. This one definitely doesn’t feel the same. Besides some bulging veins, aching hips and painfully stretching skin, a nose bleed here and there, dark rings under the eyes and an ever-present fog of tired (along with cleared skin, hallelujah!) I’m surviving quite unscathed. It’s incomparable.

Yes, I am huge. I’ve matched the 20kg surplus as I did last time, yet eating much less. How victorious. I’ve been asked on many occasions if I’m carrying ‘twins’ with predictions of, ‘you’re not going to last to your due date!’ Walking at any type of distance requires an extensive cooldown and recovery period, accompanied with wolf-like huffs and puffs. Dollops of insomnia so too rear its head at random intervals. The kicking at times is fierce, but welcomed.

“Edit your life frequently and ruthlessly. It’s your masterpiece after all.”

 Besides the above, it has also been a time of upheaval. A peaceful upheaval. A detox. A purge. An elimination of clutter, bad clothes, bad habits, bad thinking. The egg shells that have plagued my steps have finally cracked, revealing the renewed resolve I garmented all those years ago. No more double-guessing. No more hollow skeleton. I think I’ve found my groove again. I care little for opinion or idle chatter. I have no time for flattery.

It appears that everyone is all too busy or all too tired. We all have things that ‘urgently’ require our attention. The constant pull, the good intentions without action. I think it’s time for a re-evaluation of what is truly important. It’s pausing and saying, “this will have to wait. I value different treasures in this world, even more than any time schedule” It’s mindfulness. It’s family. It’s people. It’s evaluating not only my priorities, but where I am prioritised in others. “Keep people who love you, motivate you, encourage you, enhance you; if a person does none of these, let them go.” or simply said “Sometimes you have to unfollow people in real life.” It’s finding peace, rest and most importantly, forgiveness, in where you are. To everything there is a season.

It’s life gold: “Never let the urgent stand in the way of the important.”

For the first time, I think I have felt sincere excitement for our impending arrival. This must be what normal people feel like. With a bit more scrubbing and a little bit more clutter removal, I may actually feel ready.

So here I am, signing off with my new-found assertion of control. Love it, or move along (do I still have any friends left?) I am mother, hear me roar.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” – John 14:27

24 weeks

29 weeks

31 weeks

34 weeks

35 weeks

“Courage is knowing what not to fear.” – Plato

It’s time for the first hospital appointment. I’m nervous. I feel I’ve been in the dark as to what this pregnancy care will look like this time around. My new mantra is still running strong… most of the time… Don’t carry burdens… burdens like pants. Yes, my pants already don’t fit me. I need to go shopping.

I’m ushered into the ‘private’ 12-week antenatal appointment after the usual anticipated waiting time of our public hospitals, and am greeted by a ‘student’ midwife. Oh Lord Almighty. Please have mercy on my soul. I understand that most students are completely competent. She was lovely and I have no doubt that she’d make a brilliant midwife… but… ‘student’ is the last word I want to hear right now. My last pregnancy was received with the royal treatment; specialist doctors, genetic counsellors and the brilliant Feto-Maternal Unit (FMU). Everything was clearly outlined from day one; no waiting times, no confusion. You can imagine the contrast.

I play the usual game that comes with this particular appointment, making sure I sound convincing with each question… “no, I don’t take drugs”, “no, I haven’t been abused…” Why do I always look so guilty? Awkward pauses fill the voids as all the data is entered once again.

“Pregnancy number 3…” Another awkward moment. Please, just read my overflowing file sitting right next to you so I don’t have to explain everything again. She asks no questions. Phew. The appointment is coming to an end, and I feel her invitation to leave the room. Nothing has been discussed about ultrasounds or tests. Is it now time to panic? I don’t leave my seat, but instead ask when my scan date will be. She looks confused. I start to explain my previous care. Her face changes as her lack of experience begins to bubble to the surface. She looks lost. “I’ll get my supervisor.”

10 minutes pass as I sit playing with my phone in the room, when she returns with a familiar face holding some forms. This time I’m greeted with a, “You’re back! Congratulations! Here are your upcoming hospital referrals. I’ve just booked them all in for you. Your blood test is booked for this day, and the FMU will see you next Thursday.” I couldn’t remember her name from last time, but she oozed authority and aptitude. I want people like you in my corner. Please deliver my baby. What is better than a familiar face? A familiar face that remembers you. I love you, midwife lady.

I leave with a little less weight on my shoulders.

There’s no need to explain the thoughts and feeling leading up to the 13-week scan. Hubby was away for work, so I went alone. Once you strip away the sentimental and are well-rehearsed in the medical, it doesn’t feel like a celebratory event all that much. It’s just another hurdle to conquer. It’s sometimes easier to jump when you feel you’ve got no-one else to carry. Maybe I should just let someone carry me for once? What would the even look like?

I’m greeted by name at the unit with more familiar faces and with sincere congratulations, however, it’s hard to ignore the lingering presence of confliction. This place has been both the bearer of heartbreaking grief and reassuring comfort. I wonder what it will bear third time around? I guess we’re about to find out.

Hello again, Little One. There you are.

13 weeks: Little One

17 Week Belly

“Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness.”

“A certain darkness is needed to see the stars.” – Osho

This feels nothing like the last 2 times. I don’t have that familiar sickly feeling as before, nor the ghastly threats of UTIs that had plagued me previously. This has to mean something. I am sick, I am tired, but it feels so different. And my skin… still no resolve. This has to mean something. Little One has a notable understanding that there is a baby growing in his mum’s stomach. We haven’t told anyone else yet. I instantly ‘look’ pregnant. How are we going to hide it this time? Looking after a 2-year-old and concealing the wearing symptoms are going to be a challenge. Don’t overthink it… but it all has to mean something.

The waiting game, at times, can be a cruel one. My little brain assumes every detail to ‘mean something’. It’s a sign of the worse and of things to come! I recite my new-found mantra numerous times a day to combat my imaginations thrill in toying with me. “Don’t carry burdens that don’t yet exist.” But there’s probably no heart beat… maybe it’s even a ‘phantom’ pregnancy. It all has to mean something. At least I haven’t denied its existence as I did with Little One. That’s progress, right? My thoughts are spiralling again. This is just not good enough.

I reinforce to myself again that this time I’m in control of my thought-patterns and I mutter my mantra again; “Don’t carry burdens that don’t yet exist.” Worry and entertaining the “what if” scenarios does not prepare us for imminent doom, it just robs us and the moments of its presence. It’s so cliché, but I’m very aware that I need to make the conscious decision to live in today and to stop living in tomorrow. So easily said…

The impending “Dating Scan” day has finally arrived. This time, I don’t go alone. Little One accompanies me and has been a blessed distraction. I feel I’ve done so well. There’s been no dark holes or deep valleys the last few weeks. Maybe I have finally come full circle. I speak too soon…

I pull into the carpark and my chest starts to tighten. It’s all becoming too real again. Breathe through it. My insides feel like they’ve turned to jelly as I hear myself recanting my new-found strength. I can’t do this again. I don’t want to. My eyes fill with tears as I assemble the pram and take him from his car seat. What have I done. Breathe. Breathe.

Little One is positioned by the sonographer at the end of the table. His little hand sits on my leg as he witnesses things he cannot yet comprehend. My eyes well with tears again, this time not from angst, but from the intrigue, wonder and warmth exuding from Little One’s face. This has to mean something. In the darkened room, it’s revealed to us the little flicker of life. Hello there, Little One. Don’t we have a journey ahead of us… as I assert to myself again; “don’t carry burdens that don’t yet exist.”

“Nothing teaches us about the preciousness of the Creator as much as when we learn the emptiness of everything else.” –Spurgeon

6 weeks

9 weeks

Little Flicker

“The truth you store up in the silence comes back to you in the storm.”

Hush. It whispers. It breathes as stillness through the air. Its impending arrival can be felt, but not seen. So it begins.

He places his little hand on my tummy and affirms with such truth, “There’s a baby.” I glance back at him in astonishment. “What did you say?” He repeats with firm assurance, “baby”, as he climbs off the bed and continues with his usual morning ritual of cars and cartoons.

It’s Good Friday. I have no apparent baby bump, nor has there ever been any talk of ‘baby’ with the Little One.  Where did he get that from?

The hush slowly transforms into a distant hum. The echoing sounds of change resound like rested time. You can feel its imminent presence.

I hold on for two weeks in the hope that my child may possess the gift of prophecy; “From out of the mouth of babes…” The dates arrive and I’m left disappointed with my usual monthly arrival.

The light and clear are slowly consumed by the approaching darkness. The surrounds are warmed as the earth yearns for its fill. The contrast of nature’s welcome and evident resistance can be tasted through our senses. I can smell the rain.

I’m left confused as my monthly arrival abruptly ceases after 2 days. This is not normal.

I’m pregnant.

I can feel the strong gales and threatening flickers of lightening. The force intensifies as the thrashing of heavy drops begin to fall.

The storm approaches.

My relief and excitement at the blessing of a growing family is being tested. Am I really doing this again? Can I really do this again? What truths have I stored up over these last few years? The tides of fear and dread are threatening my resolve. Sometimes our biggest blessings are also our biggest storms to conquer.

It will happen again. It will all go wrong. Don’t rest in today. Live in tomorrow. Let your mind take control. You cannot, and you will not, find repose.

But instead, the truths begin to roar… The winds and rhythm of the rain lull me to ease. His voice is glorious in the thunder… as I remind myself, I am the storm.

“You cannot withstand the storm”. The warrior whispers back, “I am the storm.”

“She was brave and strong and broken all at once.”

I watched her. I know her story. Knowing the stories changes everything.

“That’s quite a large age gap. You’d have to be ready for number 2. He’ll be a great big brother.”

She responds with a smile and laugh. My heart skips a beat as I hold my breath… but I watch in admiration. She displays such mercy to the unsuspecting. If only they knew. “It’s happened again.” 3 years and miscarriage number 4. It’s called secondary infertility. She doesn’t blame anyone for their apparent insensitivity. She reads people’s hearts more than their words. She knows not everyone has an intention to pry into her reproductive business. She knows it’s just a gesture. A conversation filler. An appeal of concern. An invitation to share. She has every right to be bitter, but instead, she exerts such beauty, patience and compassion. It hurts.

She’s brave, strong and broken all at once.

I tell myself wishfully, “I won’t have another until they can.”

It’s an internal plea. Do I really think that negating my own fertility may benefit someone else? Does our universe work like this?

I assume conception will be a guarantee. We conceive first time, each time. This seems so unfair when others want and deserve it far more than me. Why do I get the choice while others struggle for years?

They’re pregnant. They’re further along than they have ever been since this journey began. Maybe this is the sign? I’ve always imagined we’d have more than one. Maybe we should at least try?

One month.

Two months.

Three months.

Talking about fertility is like tapping on a chipped window; we hold our breath and wait to see if it will either withstand the pressure, make the crack worse, or shatter the glass into a million pieces. Maybe that’s why we don’t talk about it. We’re too afraid. It’s too private. It’s a burden to carry alone. Mind your own business. 

She’s brave, strong and broken all at once.

Four months.

Five months.

Six months.

I’ve met her. She generously reveals glimpses of her turbulent journey; the yearly struggle, the anticipation and disappointment, the endless IVF cycles, the invasive testings, the losses, the miracle babies, the unmerciful realities, the empty arms.

She’s brave, strong and broken all at once.

Seven months.

Eight months.

I research all things fertility. I’m filled with dread and fear. I don’t want to go down that road. I know what I’m made of, and I know I can’t do as they do. She’s made of bravery and strength. I can’t be her.

The stories change everything. They embrace the hurting and whisper, “you’re not alone”. They remind us to count our blessings. They uncover the mercies we’re granted. They encourage and reveal life’s truths. They give our pain a purpose.

To our brave, strong and broken; thank you for your stories. You’ve comforted more people than you’ll ever know.

Don’t be afraid to share yours.

“Everything that happens to you is your teacher. The secret is to learn to sit at the feet of your own life and be taught by it.”

*For a brave, strong and broken story (and more facts about fertility) read this heart-wrenching and highly informative article: The Parent Trap.  http://www.scoop.com.au/Online-Articles/The-Parent-Trap

“People keep telling me that life goes on, but to me, that’s the saddest part.”

He hates me. I sense it in his presence. He doesn’t want to be here just as much as I don’t want him here. We haven’t spoken properly for a while, not that we have anything to say. The resentment has virtually dwindled, which has been replaced with numbness. We’ve moved into dangerous territory. The one person who made up my other half now makes me feel incomplete. I whisper to myself: “I hate him.” How did we get to this place?

It’s the 3^rd anniversary. She would have turned 3 this year. I can’t even fathom it. Life has moved on as it should. It’s a day spent at home with my Little One. It’s not a day that needs any public gesture or recognition, but it was the most defining event in our life. It is our divide in time. It’s our BC/AD. Everything changed on that day. It changed for the worse, and then for the better.

On return from his day at work, I stand in the doorway staring at his empty hands. I wait. He doesn’t notice. I can’t hold my tongue: “no flowers this year?” He responds with a blank look of disgust and bites back, “What’s so special about today?”

He must have seen the glaze in my eyes as the words rolled over his tongue. Within a snap I watch his icy façade melt into thousands of shattered pieces. I saw the memory flood through him as he reached for me with the familiar warmth I had always loved. I’m ice cold. It has nothing to do with the flowers. It never has anything to do with the flowers.

  I hate him.

“The words you speak become the house you live in.” – Hafiz

According to John Gottman, ph.D., there is a habit of mind that makes us either ‘Masters’ or ‘Disasters’. Masters “are scanning social environment for things they can appreciate and say thank you for. They are building this culture of respect and appreciation very purposefully. Disasters are scanning the social environment for partners’ mistakes.”

We’ve always been Masters. In our own journeys of self-improvement and acknowledgement of our personal flaws, we’ve always been a team. Iron sharpened iron… but it’s clear we have swapped sides. Even when I’ve felt completely alone, I always had him. We’ve lost each other. I sob in the shower. Life has really gone on. It’s gone on without me.

I hate him.

Our 5^th year of marriage has been the worst yet. We finally realised what everyone meant when they said it was “hard work”. Before now it really had been easy. It’s hard to be kind when you’re tired. It’s hard to be thankful when you’re dealing with your own demons. It’s hard to appreciate when all you’re focusing on is the mistakes. It’s hard to add value when you feel devalued, but we don’t want to be the ‘Disasters’ anymore. The decision has to be made, can we be bothered to be purposeful in our words and actions, even when we don’t feel like it? There lies the challenge. There lies the answer.

A year has passed. It’s the 4th anniversary. She would have turned 4 this year. I can’t even fathom it. So much has changed in 12 months. He arrives home from a long week at work. I’m sure he is tired, but he decides to still radiate the warmth I have always loved about him. He doesn’t have to say anything. His hands are full; 1 white rose amongst the red. It has nothing to do with the flowers. It never has anything to do with the flowers. By our choices, we are found.

 I always have. I always will. 

I love him.

“And you loved me like I was and had always been the answer and the question did not and would never matter.”

“There is no secret ingredient- it’s just you.” – Kung Fu Panda

Our experiences are different. We have so many shared milestones and nods of “me too”, but the Mummy Wagon ride is so different for everyone. Some seem to bask in the shining warmth radiating through the window pane. They reflect the glow of the sun and absorb the serene landscape that passes by. The hum of the ride is like a soothing pulse which puts them at ease. Sometimes it seems perplexing why the other passengers don’t share the same perspective. It just flows. It just happens… we are the mothers of the earth.

And then there are those… those like me… those who hang on for dear-life, sliding back and forth on the shadowed backseat- holding on- squirming like a drowning worm. Every turn and bump is felt deep within the pit of our stomach. Is it night or day? Sometimes it seems perplexing why the other passengers were given such a different ride….

Regardless of what seat you find yourself on, we’re all on the same journey. How I love the soothing encouragement from humbled masters of motherhood. You’ve got this. Trust yourself. How I love the kindness of the hot-mess mothers. We know… we are here with you. How lucky I’ve been to take the ride with women of encouragement and kindness. This, unfortunately, is not the tale for all…

As we celebrate our first year of parenthood, I inhale the accomplishment of survival, the conquering of new challenges and rest in the overcoming of fear. It has been a year of healing scars, but along with this, a year of cradling fresh wounds. Wounds of motherhood guilt, dread and disappointment. Like I’ve said a million times, it’s not what I had ever imagined the ride to be.

Despite the ups and downs of this ride, as I watch Little One delightfully tucking into his ‘organic, sugar-free’ cake (yeah, I know. I know) and gaze upon the surrounds filled with our greatest advocates- our family and friends- I can’t help but admire this crazy year of change. This once screaming ball of confusion has grown into this little human of humour, determination and gentleness.

Oh, how you have changed me forever. Here is to turning one, Little One. Here’s to us!

Grace embraces our whole story and then… redeems it.

“Time is such a strange concept. How it stops and starts and strangles and expands. How it needs. How it demands.” -Victoria Erickson

The blush burgundy. The rusted rufescent leaf edges. Her name meant red. They are my seasonal reminder. It’s the month of red. May. Our miserable month of anniversaries. We say nothing again, but he brings me flowers. Two red roses among the white. It’s a gesture that he hasn’t forgotten. It’s been 2 whole years.

Before we know it, the years have passed. We could have just floated and let the currents drift us away with no return. But instead, we swim. We’ve been treading and paddling wearily for so long that I hadn’t even noticed that the sand was right here under our feet.

Find your rest in Me.

Little One and I make the most of a late autumn and soak up the warm sunshine, walking the pavement lined with crowded leaved trees. The trees look nothing like they did 2 years ago. Their once gaunt branches of May 2012 now still boast in the glory of summer. Only flickers of autumn appear.

As I walk on the worn cemented path, my nerves begin to settle. It really is just another day. Today there is no ‘sliding door’ montage. No lamenting or mourning. I look up and take a picture of this moment. I want to remember. As I gaze to the brilliant blue sky through the green and red leaves I can’t help but say ‘thank you’. Never would I have dreamt that those words could fall from my lips with such truth, but I meant it. I mean it. For the first time in a long time I felt an overwhelming sense of sincere gratitude. For the good days and the bad days. The good seasons and the terrible ones.

He doesn’t change. We do… We break. We rebuild. And we hold on through the next wave…

“Grief is like the ocean, it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.”- Vicki Harrison

“Life is amazing, and then it’s awful. And then it’s amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful, it’s ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That’s just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life.” – LR Knost.

I had a plan to write about my ebbs and flows.

I was going to write about the idea that motherhood should come with a disclaimer: have your justifications ready to go. You don’t need to be a mentalist to read the signs and suggestions; “He still sleeps in your room? He’s how old again…”

I was going to write about my body guilt. How my efforts in getting back into “shape” only acted as further punishment to my already failing conceptions of motherhood. I was going to share my monthly photos of self-loathing after every failed exercise venture. As mothers alike have suggested: ‘what’s my excuse?”

I was going to write about my muscle separation and weakened pelvic floor. Oh, the funnies I could get out of that one. Riveting…

I was going to write about sugar. Oh, and vaccines. That would be sure to get the pot stirring.

I was going to write about my newfound understanding about the ‘club’. You know, the stuff you only realise once you’re in the club. No matter how hard you try to deny it or fight it, some things you’ll only understand once you’re in it.

I was going to write about how I now smile at those expecting mothers with their grand plans. If only they really knew. How all I can do is just smile and nod. How I silently say a prayer each time hoping that they’ll be ok.

I was going to write about how I can see my old child-free self in so many other women, their cynicism and judgement. How ugly it is.

I was going to write about the extreme competitiveness and one-upmanship within the club. How ugly that is.

I was going to write about the fear that my son may think that his own name was “mum” by the amount of times I’d tried to get him to say it. (He did say ‘mum’ first, mind you.)

I was going to write about how his little mind must view me behind the case of my iPhone. How he’ll think the little black box is a permanent extension of his mum and dad. How much I wish I watched him instead of the clock or held him instead of my phone.

I was going to write about how our access to technology has made us mindless. How studies have linked technology use with depression and mental health. How desperately people are looking to escape. How our mindless scrolling could be adding to our emptiness.

I had boundless ideas to write about the many lessons on this mummy wagon: The endless ebbs and flows, the awful, mundane, glorious, heart-wrenching, and breath-taking moments. But… I’m tired. Writing has become a chore. I feel it’s a punishment. Something that was once a release has become a burden. I guess these are the ebbs and flows of living. The world constantly echoes to us words of discouragement. Its flattery is tasteless and hollow. It wants to keep us voiceless while exacerbating the empty chatter. It wants to tell us that our contributions are invalid, no, more than that… deficient. It doesn’t applaud when we win, but don’t be fooled, it’s certainly taking notes. Maybe the times when we really don’t feel like it are the precise moments when we actually should. When there’s no peace yet to stop, keeping going.

… and so, I wrote.

“Don’t punish yourself’, she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness. That was writing.” – Markus Zusak: The Book Thief