“You’ve never failed and you won’t start now.”

People often explain this moment as the greatest moment in their lives. No other humanly experience could compare. After the months and months of growth, change and worry… to see, hold, touch and nurture your child… your own flesh and blood… your very heart now beating outside of you… life is now meant to make sense. The moment to be marked as the pinnacle of life itself was nothing as I had imagined it to be. I still remember the words I uttered to hubby; “This has been the second worst week of my life…” You could probably guess which came in first.

My waters had clearly broken, but there were no signs of any dilation or contractions. Due to my GBS results, I was induced soon after my arrival at the birthing unit and given antibiotics at various intervals. Although the test is highly controversial, and the possibility of a negative outcome is rare, there was no way I would even dare to take the chance. The professionals can have me on this one. I’ve been hooked up to two intravenous drips and a heart rate monitor is strapped around my belly. I cannot move due to the cords draped all around me. As contractions kick in, I find myself asking the nurses to ‘unhook’ me so I can go to the bathroom. The walking and moving makes me feel more comfortable, rather than lying motionless on my back in bed. Through the toilet wall, I can hear the lady next door screaming as if she was being tortured to death. It horrified me. In my mind, I’m imagining being strapped back down on that bed without being able to move again, and imagining that type of pain waiting for me. So far, I’ve been strong, but now I’m filled with doubt. As I return back to my bed, I’m hooked back up to all the machinery. I’ve convinced myself that I cannot face what’s to come whilst in this situation, contained in this prostrate position. I ask my midwife, a humorous and kind-hearted Dutch man, that I’d take up that offer of an epidural. Everyone was surprised by my change of heart. I’m checked at a full 5cm, which further solidified my decision, as the overwhelming discomfort experienced just from ‘checking’ my progression was violating enough. I’m obviously not cut out for this. The anaesthetist returns to inject the good stuff into my spine. With her second attempt, a third bag is placed alongside my other two drips. I start to lose all sensation of contractions for about 30 mins and I’m given a catheter. I watch the waves on the monitor as each contraction comes and goes, each time Little Man’s heart rate dips then climbs back up. At this time, my mum arrives to visit with some flowers. It wasn’t the plan, but she ended up staying (thank goodness).

To my surprise, contractions suddenly emerge back, which requires the nurses to fiddle around with both the induction and epidural levels. The obstetrician emerges with concerns regarding my progression. I’m now at 7cm and the effect the contractions are having on Little Man’s heart-rate are becoming concerning, as his heart beat continues to dive and slowly climb back up each time. A c-section was mentioned, however, the overpowering army of midwives in the room defended that they would turn down the induction meds and continue to monitor. It was quite comical to watch the interaction between the doctors and nurses. The tensions were obvious, seeing as the midwives continued to voice their frustrations through ‘professional gossip’ once she had left. A heart rate monitor was then attached to Little Man, by inserting a small suction pad to the top of his head.

The midwives seem perplexed after reaching the full epidural ‘top-up’ capacity, that I’m still experiencing the full effect of contractions, and once I hit 10cm, I’m back in full swing. It appears I am the lucky 1% whose epidural top-ups wear off quickly, making them absolutely pointless. Another thing to add to my book of statistics. I’m given the gas, oh wonderful gas, which is soon taken away from me with the instruction to push. It’s noted that I am an excellent ‘pusher’ and I must remember to add that to my resume, however, things are not happening as it should. One pace forward, one pace back. The anaesthetist returns with a dose of morphine and adrenaline for pain relief and to stimulate the fetal ejection reflex. As a result of my drug concoctions, my legs are completely paralysed, contractions are raging, but I’m as happy and high as a kite. I hope they give me a doggy bag, so I can take some of this ‘good-stuff’ home.

It’s that time of night and shifts are ending. My midwife now has to go home as a new one takes over. He mentions to the new midwife, “She’s going to need some help”, which is returned with the snarly remark, “Not on my watch!” This wasn’t exactly the ‘handover’ conversation I was expecting. I’m told to push for a further hour, with no progress, totalling nearly 2 hours of continuous pushing. My whole body is now strained. There has been no change, and all involved are becoming worried. From here a sense of urgency emerges as a team appears; two nurses, an obstetrician, a paediatrician, my midwife, along with hubby and mum.  The team has come to get him out, and get him out now with a venthouse delivery, otherwise known as a vacuum extraction. At the obstetrician’s second attempt, Little Man’s head is yanked and emerges, “Don’t be alarmed. It’s going to be ok. When he’s out, we are going to take him away and we don’t want him to cry, so don’t be concerned if he’s quiet.” Little man is given the instruction by the doctor, “Don’t cry!”  and with the next pull, Little Man is delivered with an almighty full-lunged cry and rushed to the paediatrician. He had pooed while in utero, a sign of fetal distress. He required immediate attention to be suctioned to remove any meconium in his lungs and airways.

I haven’t yet been able to see him. Everyone has left me in my delirium as they huddle around him. I can’t see. My glasses were taken from me, so all I can hear is rushing, gurgling and sucking. I begin to cry asking if he is ok, as my mum calls over, “He’s beautiful.”

He is finally brought to me and placed on my chest as the search for my glasses continue. At this time, the obstetrician gives me a local and for the next 45mins stitches me back together. Mum and hubby take photos of him and comment on how “asian” he looks. Not exactly the comment I was expecting with a room full of mostly asian doctors.

As I stare down at him, I feel relief that he is here, but in complete disbelief. He is alive. I’m alive. But certainly this can’t be the greatest moment of my life. I’m holding a stranger that I’ve prayed life into, worried over and cried over. Now I’m holding him and there’s nothing familiar about him. Who are you and what have you just done to me?

This was meant to be my moment of healing. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel anymore defeated…

On Sunday 7.7.13 at 11:34pm, weighing 3650g (8lb) and 52cm, Little Man made his grand entry… and now it seems the story begins again.

Meeting Little Man for the first time

“The child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe, good and happy.”

“Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.” -Mark Amend

“Dear heart,

Don’t be discouraged. Don’t be disappointed. There is no such thing as failure. We’ve been conditioned to believe. We are told it’s our biology. It’s a natural process. The evil lies within the practitioners, with conspiracies to intervene with their medical witchcraft.

But dear heart, natural is great, and for many easily achieved, but listen…so is death.

It’s our biology. It’s a natural process. For most, our trust lies within the practitioner with the goal to intervene with each life-saving medical breakthrough. Natural is best, until it’s not. We are a flawed creation, and if we were to apply the ridiculous ideals we hold for women and childbirth to other areas of health and life, we would see how very misled we are.

Natural is best: a failure to progress, abnormal presentation, prolapsed umbilical cords, umbilical cord compression, placenta previa, meconium inhalation, nuchal cord, infection, cephalopelvic disproportion, preeclampsia, placental abruption, congenital abnormality, haemorrhage, atonic uterus, ruptured uterus, trauma, retained placenta, placenta accreta, blood clots, sepsis, amniotic fluid embolism, nerve damage, incontinence, intrapartum asphyxia, malpresentation, birth defects, dystocia, infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth.

Natural is best, until it’s not.

I know how much you love facts; How much you need proof, so here it is: According to the World Health Organisation, “Globally, little progress has been made in reducing maternal mortality. An estimated 515,000 women die each year as a result of pregnancy and childbirth”, 7 million have serious long-term complications and 50 million women have negative outcomes following delivery. But natural is best, until it’s not. UNICEF findings show that most maternal deaths were preventable. Only 7% of women who died while giving birth had with them a skilled medical attendant. Evidence shows that to deal with these harrowing statistics, UNICEF and other aid organisations have been establishing health care services, equipping them with essential drugs and equipment, with capacity to undertake caesarean sections, assisted delivery and safe blood transfusions, providing training to establish skilled birthing attendants, nurses and midwives, along with providing education to recognise signs in abnormal pregnancy and complications. Lets make this comparison clearer: for every 1,000 live births, 118 Afghani babies with die and in Australia only 4. Now times these horrendous truths by all the other underdeveloped nations in the world. When comparing statistics on maternal and infant mortality rates, it’s conclusive from all major agencies, and for most with a hint of common sense, these discrepancies are due to the “lack of access to medical intervention.” (UNICEF)

Now why would I overwhelm you with all of this? The facts are, a problem- free, natural pregnancy and labour is desirable and definitely achievable, but will not be for everyone. The truth is, 1 in 4 women in our developed nations, including Australia, require medical intervention, whether it is induction, augmentation, episiotomy, forceps delivery, vacuum delivery or caesarean section… and we’re surviving. Dear heart, remind yourself of the aim. The aim isn’t to join a club of drug-free dolphin mums. The aim is not to somehow prove your womanhood. The aim is to survive, just as women have been doing since the dawn of time. We are the lucky ones who get to reap the reward of childbirth. Some never see the day; others go home with empty arms. 

Children’s Hospital queue, Cambodia. 

Children’s Hospital queue, Cambodia.

In our developed nations we live longer, with greater quality of life, and we can thank the ever-improving access to medical intervention. Our pathetic ‘first world problems’ constantly cloud our better judgements, as we all continue to live with a sense of ‘entitlement’. Remember when you visited that Children’s Hospital in Cambodia? The endless queue that weaved around the block of parents cradling their children waiting to see a doctor. You were told that many won’t go home, but will stay for days until someone can see them. Remember how embarrassed you felt; how you couldn’t make yourself take a photo of the queue of people. Remember how you thought, “how does this happen?”, and for a moment in time you had a deep sense of appreciation for what you had? I’m not surprised that you had forgotten. Oh, how quickly you forget the injustices of the world and continue to be swept up in your own little ambitions. How lucky you are to have resource. How lucky you are to be educated on what you want. How lucky you are to have a choice, or at least entertain the idea of choice. How lucky you are to know that natural is best, but when it’s not, you have teams and resources on your side fighting for your survival.

Dear heart, you are no less of a woman, let alone any less of a mother. Sometimes the lavender candles and happy thoughts aren’t enough. “If you want it enough, you’ll get it”, but dear heart, you know that’s not true. We need to remind our sisters that going through two days of labour resulting in an emergency C-section is not ‘disappointing’; You have experienced all there is to be a mum. Remind your friends, that scheduling a C-section on doctor’s orders is not a cop-out; You are not missing out on anything that will make you more ‘mum’. If you’ve gone through the tedious, heart wrenching IVF process, if your labour has failed to progress, if you’re requiring an induction, if nothing is going as planned, just remember… your body has not failed you. You are but the result of a perfectly fallen human nature. If baby becomes distressed and all your well-meaning plans go out the window, you epitomise everything it is to be a ‘mum’; giving up your own wishes and desires for the health of your child. You have not been defeated. And don’t forget to tell your sisters, if you’ve been blessed to have all your ducks line up in a row and it all works out just as you had imagined, we are relieved and pleased for you. If you feel you need to be an advocate for your cause, we will cheer with you, but we also hope you will cheer for us. Don’t look down on us, but lift us up, as we all know, natural is best, until it’s not. Block out the toxic opinions of others. Some people will never understand that not all experiences are the same. Don’t be conformed to the pressures of social-media. Comment threads are merely the over-compensation of a hurting world. 

Dear heart, sometimes things feel unfair, but it is ok. No one holds anymore value than the next person. Life happens. You know this. No one has taken anything away from you. Don’t be discouraged. Don’t be disappointed. There is no such thing as failure… just be grateful.”

If I could go back in time, I’d write this to myself. I’d make sure I read it, again and again. I’d read it until I believed it. Until the words could be recited off by heart, until it ran through my veins and became truth…

… because nothing went to plan.

“People change for two main reasons: their minds have been opened, or their hearts have been broken.”

Sometimes we forget how good we’ve actually got it…

*Stats: World Health Organisation, UNICEF.org & UN.org

“I will learn to love the skies I’m under.”

Lucky for me, little man’s birth date coincides with the school holidays so even though I’ve now finished up at work, I have technically scored 2 weeks off before his anticipated arrival. My timing is impeccable. Even though I’ve packed all my things and handed my beloved class to new hands, it still doesn’t seem real. I’ve never not worked. I’m flooded with advice to spend as much time with hubby, to go to the movies, to watch DVDs, to do nothing and do everything. The greatest thing you’ll ever experience in your entire humanely existence lies around the corner. The reward. The love. You’ll learn what tired truly means. It’ll be your greatest achievement. You’ll never be the same again. Yeah, yeah… I continue with my internal eye rolls. How can so much be wrapped up in one part of their lives (*please insert another one of those wet-fish-slap moments here.*) I spend my first week off continuing with my ‘nesting’ rituals. Everything is cleaned, and then cleaned again. Everything is in perfect order. I’ve watched a movie a day and I’m clearly now bored. I’m so bored of this house, of the TV, of cleaning, of worrying… but I think mostly I’m bored with the anticipation. I’ve now been pregnant for 59 weeks! YES, over the last 20 months, I’ve been pregnant for 15 of them… and I’m over it. 40 weeks of morning sickness, 59 weeks of angst, 20 months of fake smiles, a hurting heart and trembling fear. Lets get this over and done with already.

39 weeks

It’s Saturday and I’m now 39 weeks. I take my usual belly photo and go to bed, where I am met with the most vivid dream. Hubby and I are on a holiday, which seems to be at a warm coastal suburb. The sand roads meet gutter-free driveways, followed by front lawns to beach shacks. The sky is a cloudless, brilliant blue. As we wander the streets, I see a sign for my doctor from the Feto-Maternal Unit. We walk down the sandy driveway to his office, which appeared just like any other ultrasound clinic. As I’m stretched out on the examination table, we get to look at little man on the monitor, yet the image, rather than being its usual pixelated black and white, is as clear as a photo. I can see him. All his features; his face, his hair. It’s as if I could reach out and pull him through the screen. I beg the doctor with desperate urgency; “Please, I need him now. I can’t wait any longer. I can see him. I need to hold him to know he’s ok. Please help me!” The doctor, with a surgical hook, inserts and pulls…

I wake up suddenly from my dream with a sensation of wetting the bed. I run to the bathroom, dripping wet. My waters just broke. That didn’t just happen, did it?

“Courage, dear heart.” –C.S. Lewis

“Comparison is the thief of joy” –Theodore Roosevelt

I’m so terrified of becoming a mum, but to be honest, I think I’m more terrified of being initiated into ‘the Motherhood.’ I’ve heard stories. I’ve witnessed events. I’ve seen the comment threads; those cruel, evil, comment threads. I’m frightened. It’s dangerous. But like most things, I’m hoping this noisy minority is exactly that… a minority.

The Motherhood are armed with self-righteousness. They win battles and wars behind computer screens. They disarm their opponents with tactless sneers. They draw their knives with comments of comparison, with eye rolls, with worrisome urgency or even worse, with absolute silence. Their agenda is merely of personal gain. It’s the gang of the ‘Motherhood’. It’s the land of hypocrisy and pretence. It’s a race of accolades. It’s the land of roaring and silent judgements. It’s an underbelly where social battles are waged. Frozen smiles and songs of sisterhood amount to a mere façade. Dare not question, however, the institute of the Motherhood. We are the hyper-overprotection of an already disadvantaged gender. Let’s all just pretend to like each other. It’s already worked thus far.

In the ‘Motherhood’, it’s each member’s entitlement to voice their opinion, regardless of how unwarranted, or even more disturbing, how accurate they are. The cruel intentions of the Motherhood are woven within every editorial cover and viral article, each time providing extra ammunition or desensitisation to what is acceptable. The media encourages more division within each page. They’ve worked out the formula: divide and conquer. Humour is often used to sugar-coat the countless ‘mother-bashings’ circulated on online forums. Wars are being provoked daily by the taunts and opinions of others. Let’s drop the blatant online bullying that is too often disguised as “education”. There’s nothing helpful, motivating or inspiring about it.

Why is it that in most areas of life, work and play, women seem to be our own worst enemies?

But… all is fair in love and war… and in the motherhood.

I dare not mention to a soul the name we’ve chosen. I don’t think I could tolerate the barrage of opinions. I dare not tell anyone about my secret cloth nappy collection, then too I’ll be overcome with eye rolls. Hide the breast pump, bottles and dummies! Hell hath no fury like an overcompensating member of the Motherhood.

I’m armed, I’m ready and I’m anticipating a Motherhood Mutiny. I have no idea what I’ve got myself in for… but hear me now; I will have no part of this. If you’re not building others up, then all you’re doing is pulling them down.

In our mutiny, I’ll do what’s right for me; you’ll do what’s right for you. We’ll be different in most things, but our intentions will be the same. We’ll be mothers with the same agenda. We’ll work out what’s best for us, sharing our ups and downs, while politely accepting unsolicited words of advice from well-meaning family and friends. Seasoned mothers will hopefully take us under their wings. They’ll be honest and nod with empathy, “we’ve been there”. We’ll laugh at funny names and child-rearing techniques I’d never dare to try, but we’ll never make each other feel embarrassed or silly… or most importantly, inadequate. I’ll continue to smile at the other mum at the park, regardless if there’s any recognition returned. I will ask for help and I will ask for advice, then I’ll probably do the opposite… but that is still ok.

Welcome to my Motherhood. You don’t even have to be a mother to join. Here, your womanhood isn’t defined by your abilities to procreate. Here, our motherhood needs no justifications. Here, sisterhood exists beyond lip-service. Here is where you are enough, where I am enough… where we have always been enough. We will not be divided. We will not be conquered. We are taking back the motherhood.

I’m now 38 weeks. Soon I’ll be flung into the deep end of Motherhood. I hope I won’t be swimming alone.

 “If you feel threatened by another, keep sending them encouragement until you are healed.” – B. C. Houston

38 Weeks

“He calls me beautiful like it’s my name.”

I am the pinnacle of beauty… thy fair, pregnant one. A paradigm of the childbearing form. A tour de force of propagation. Beseech thee, oh fair rounded bellied one. I am beauty. Veins ache and bulge from my whiskery lower limbs. Slumber is afflicted with aches. Urination is repeated in the midnight hours. Un-lady like vapours bellow frequently. Dog is frightened. The elixir of youth, pear and prune, do not relieve intestine confinements. I am beauty. Thy rash, in which is only bestowed on 1% of gestating women, has been blessed unto thee, stomach and bosom. I am anointed with an emulsion of steroid to appease the yearning to rip thee skin apart with nails. Bosoms are sacrificed in weakness in attempt to salvage stomach from beauty scars. I am beauty. I breathe laboriously. Thy movement is restricted. Lower limbs continue to flourish with new growth. Male companion refuses to assist the harvest of thy leg hair. Flexibility is futile. Witch Doctor man uses needles to relieve angst. Potions of raspberry leaf and fish oil continue to be consumed in preparation for fast birth and smart offspring. I glow with an aura of sweat. I flush with heat. I eat like swine. Child is now engaged. Thy bag is urged to be packed. Fear grips the back of my neck and holds me hostage. I am the chipped vase, the broken mirror, the cracked porcelain. I am the bearer of hope, the keeper of sorrow. Dust and bones, heart and soul. I am the possessor of life. I am beauty.

If this is beauty, then beauty is a cruel, fickle vixen.

“Note to self: I am enough.”

37 Weeks

“The only Zen you’ll find on mountaintops is the Zen you bring up there.” – Robert M. Pirsig

36 Weeks

We’re back at the hospital. It’s my obstetrician appointment. I could swear the nurses run the show around here and the docs are merely used to ‘sign’ them off. I get my anti-D injection in the butt… and that lovely, yet controversial, GBS swab. With that pleasant send off, I’m glad I won’t be returning back here until the real event. Over the last few weeks I’ve been having all my check-ups at my local midwifery clinic. The midwife that is now looking after me is extremely confident, strong in her views, and has a wickedly dry sense of humour that puts me at ease. I could see how she could easily be misunderstood (not that I think she’d care anyway). I also have a sweet student midwife who will follow me all the way through from now on.

At my first visit at the clinic a few weeks back, one of the initial questions she asked me was “so… birth plan?” I could feel this was a loaded question. I already had my response rehearsed and it went exactly like this… “I don’t have a birth plan. I just want a healthy baby. I trust that you are the professionals…” and that “no, I will not be attending antenatal classes”. I could see the joy on her face with each word that fell from my mouth. I was waiting for the streamers to descend from the ceiling. I think she likes me. Little did she, nor the rest of the world know, that of course I have a birth plan. OK, it had nothing to do with Zen candles or music, but I did have the whole scenario planned out in my head for months now. I am a research enthusiast, remember. I read all about the drugs, the aids, interventions and outcomes… and technically I’ve already given birth before, even though I’m sure it will be rather different this time.

Everything I read, including those ‘birth stories’ found in my parenting magazine subscription, all spoke of the wonders of natural childbirth. At first, I tried to figure out what the big obsession was with it? But the more I read, the more I become seduced by the idea. How Zen. How empowering. How rewarding. How inspiring. How strong. How fulfilling. How admirable.  I am woman… hear me roar! I’m built for this. This is my biological design. I will fulfil it. If you want something enough, you’ll get it. I have this in the bag… watch me. (Please note: time travelling stinky wet fish face slap should be due about now, but this comes later). Even though I know what I want and have an expectation of how things will play out, I find myself constantly in two minds. In reality, I don’t trust my body. It’s failed me before and I have no doubt that it may fail me again. I need some of this ‘woman power’ and ‘Zen’ they all keep talking about.

Wait, does it come in tablet form?

During this time, the nurse also checks the position of little man. Oh. My. What a sensation. Ok, breathe in and hold. I didn’t know you could literally grab the baby through your skin… Well at least I now know that it’s a bum and head that keeps poking through my stomach. Baby is transverse, but she assures that there is plenty of time for him to move.

My regular check-ups continue with the same ritual; blood pressure, baby heart rate and FMF (which is still the most excruciatingly anxious minutes waiting for the monitor to find that rhythmic thudding), fundal height measured, position assessed and I’m weighed.

I laugh hysterically at every ‘weigh-in’. I’m so hungry all the time that hubby has actually resorted to making extras at dinner time to appease the need for my double dinner intake. I don’t know why everyone warned me about your decreased appetite during the third trimester. My hunger is insatiable! So much for only needing an extra glass of milk a day for additional calories… I must be growing an army in there. I’ve eaten my way to a 20kg surplus. That’s got to be all baby, right?! Maybe I should save the wet fish face slapping for another time. There’s a high chance I might actually eat it.

With that said, I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll find that Zen at the back of the fridge somewhere.

“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.”

36 Weeks

“I came to you in weakness and fear…”
1 Corinthians 2:3

One of my favourite verses in the Bible doesn’t speak of love or promise, but of weakness and fear. No, it’s not morbid. It’s life. It’s funny how we always seem to focus on promises and prosperity without even entertaining the idea of weakness and fear. They’re ‘dirty’ words. I could describe my life over the last 12 months perfectly as weakness and fear. We are well acquainted. I literally personify weakness and fear. Over the last year, l’ve been living with it. Day in, day out. Weakness and fear can be crippling. They’re painful…

I have filled life with distractions of trivial things to muffle the deafening chatter and constant drag of weakness and fear… until I’m abruptly reminded again of the very mercies we live by each day. Sometimes life slaps us in the face to assure us that we’re not promised anything, and that when weakness and fear speaks, they are not to be ignored. My friend lost her baby… their son. It’s not my story to tell, but I’m peeled back to the shell that I’ve been trying to cover and fill with busyness… and all I can do is cry. I cry for the pain that no words will remove, for the questions no mere mortal can answer, for these mysteries of life that continue to haunt the least deserving, for the fact that ‘life’ can happen to any of us… but mostly, I cry for the weakness and fear they too will now have to endure. My friends, who have a faith and a strength that I will always admire… a resilience like I’ve never witnessed… a trust without borders. If only I was half the person…

I realise how still very broken I am… and weakness and fear squeezes me even tighter. I buy flowers and walk it to their hospital room. It’s the room directly next to where Sienna was birthed a whole year ago. I can’t do this. I hand the flowers to the nurse who tells me to take them in myself. I can’t. I can’t go any further. I leave as swiftly as I arrived. I just want to disappear and make everything go away. Life truly has moments that completely suck. That leaves us dry and void. I’ve got absolutely nothing to offer, but more sorrow and a flaunting growing belly. It’s not fair.

Weakness and fear can be crippling. They’re painful… but more than that, they can be incomparable teachers. What can weakness and fear teach us? Faith doesn’t rest on the wisdoms of man, but on the power of our Creator… on ‘the universe’,  on the ‘higher power’, or whatever else you’d like to refer to as God. Life is made up of beautiful contradictions; “Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted”…”when I am weak then I am strong”. In weakness we find our true strength… in fear we find our true voice.

Weakness and fear are merely tools, not a destination. They are to be used and discarded. They do not control us, but guide us. Don’t ignore them, don’t drown them, don’t bury them in busyness. Wear weakness and fear on your sleeve. Look it in the eye and acknowledge it. Stop pretending it doesn’t exist and grab that sucker by the horns. Learn your lesson, then here’s the hard bit… let it go.

I think maybe I’m still learning…

“… Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander and my faith will be made stronger…”

“Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic.” -Frida Kahlo

It’s our anniversary. We don’t even dare speak of the events of last year. Hubby just gives me that look… the look of “I know what this date marks”. My eyes respond saying, “I know, please don’t say it”. It’s our 3rd anniversary, not only of taking a vow, but the first anniversary of everything that encumbers the name Sienna.

We book a weekend in the city at a fancy hotel and restaurant. We don’t mention it once. We don’t need to nor want to. I think to myself why I didn’t take photos? The ones by the hospital were terrible. They don’t look anything like her. I only have my memory to go off and one day I’ll forget what she looked like. Maybe I wanted to forget? The things I’d do differently a whole year out of the moment. It’s not exactly the thoughts that romance is made of…

We’re not the same people. We both lost a part of ourselves a year ago that we are still looking to find. He looks at me differently. I don’t know if it’s due to my unflattering compression stockings I now wear to help my throbbing, aching veins or because he can’t find the person he fell in love with.

There’s no magic left but he hugs me each day hoping his arms might just push all my broken pieces back together. I’m still here somewhere.

They say time heals all wounds…. but my heart still hurts. My God, every single day it hurts.

It’s 1 year down. I’m convinced it has to get better.

“Broken crayons still colour.”

Happy anniversary, my love.

Milestones

05.05.12

Work for a cause, not for applause. Live life to express, not to impress. Don’t strive to make your presence noticed, just make your absence felt.

I find joy in celebrating the major milestones of others, but over my short years, I’ve come to the conclusion that celebrations bring the best and worst out of people.

Criticisms about the cost, groans about wishing well requests or gift registries, complaints about giving up a weekend. Isn’t life supposed to be about people and not things? Since when did we all become so ‘busy’?

There’s nothing wrong with celebrating something good. Money is never ‘misused’, nor time ever ‘wasted’, if spent on creating a lasting memory or being a part of a loved-ones milestone. Life and memories are built on these moment and we don’t get many of them. It just makes me think… if you roll your eyes when an invitation arrives, scoff at a gift request or pass spiteful comments in secret, you’ve got to ask yourself, do you actually care for this person? and if you’re feeling that way, you probably shouldn’t attend anyway.

Maybe we have too many acquaintance and not enough friends? Maybe we don’t actually care enough? Has this new breed of professional party planning ruined genuine celebrations? Since when did everything become such a competition? Why are we so sceptical of everything and everyone? 

In saying this, it’s time for my pity party.

As the count down to the baby shower draws closer, I reflect back on all the major milestones of my life. At the age of 26, there really aren’t too many of them. There have been birthdays, two graduations (one in which I unfortunately didn’t even attend), an engagement, a wedding and now a baby shower. As I mull over some of these occasions, I find that I’m not overcome with deep joy or nostalgia… only a quiet, but lingering sense of disappointment. I think I’ve finally come to the conclusion that for a long while now I’ve felt constantly disappointed. Can you hear my tiny violin playing?

I’ve never thought that I was the centre of the universe, nor would ever want to be, but I feel I’ve learnt even at my age that if you want something done, just do it yourself. Don’t expect anything from anyone.… including a pat on the back… or a celebration. People will always be too busy, too forgetful, too self-absorbed or just not genuinely interested. The truth is, zero expectations means zero disappointment. I won’t be robbed of my joy any longer. No one can be blamed but myself… it’s my fault for expecting more from others, when all along I should be expecting more for myself. Deep… yeah, I know.

Amongst my usual over analysis on life, it’s baby shower time, or as the bitter old cynics call it…the ‘greedy grab’. Over the last few weeks I’ve filled the time with stationary and baby shower supplies. It’s been all consuming and absolutely mind-numbingly wonderful! I’ve designed and handmade everything. Hubby actually offers to organise the shower for me. He’s so sweet, but the thought of it makes me feel like an even bigger loser. “It’s ok, I’ll do it myself… I’m sure others will help me”. I know that he always feels sorry me. It’s probably because he belongs to a sort of ‘brotherhood’ of blokes. It’s different for boys though, isn’t it? In saying that, I have dragged him into the prep to utilise his gift of being able to cut super straight with scissors! He’s definitely a keeper. I feel that in my previous life I may have been a party planner. I’ve planned my baby shower… from every decoration to every game. No, I didn’t have a gift registry. I genuinely don’t want a party for gifts. I literally don’t need them. I have fantastic hand-me-downs coming out my ears and I’m pretty sure babies can survive with just a few things, right? Yes, I ordered a fancy, expensive cake. So what? I just want something good to celebrate. Is that such a bad thing?

As always, it’s family who are the ones who step-up organising details, lending and sourcing supplies and making all the food… they are my greatest friends and allies. Friends also help out on the day ensuring everything goes to plan. 

The day looks just as I’d imagined. Yeah, the tea may have been a bit cold and the weather not too great, but thanks to those of you who didn’t feel the need to point that out to me. I felt extremely uncomfortable. I had nothing to wear. I didn’t like my outfit. Thanks to those of you who just told me how great I looked. I’m blocking out the negative. They won’t take this away from me. It’s amazing how there’s always that one who tries to make everything about them. This may be a party, but it’s really a therapy session… one with games and cake. I don’t actually even want to be here. I purposely didn’t open the presents in front of everyone. Honestly, I didn’t want your presents (but I’m extremely grateful for them!) but I just wanted you, my friends… to help me celebrate something I’m having troubles finding the joy in.

I mutter to myself over and over, “this is good for me”… I think my pity party has finally come to a close. I did this… and I did it for me. In all my glorious awkwardness and fear, I survived the shower. He’s still kicking around. It didn’t jinx anything. It’s another milestone… a celebrated one. I now look back over photos with joy and nostalgia… with my friends and family.

A baby is brewing… and he’s worth the celebration… He’s worth the effort… and Little One,  I haven’t been one bit disappointed.

“I took it off. I did not want to carry it with me anymore.”

34 weeks

The fancy cake

Some of the decorations

A baby is brewing