I remember crying, big wracking sobs, because all I wanted was a bath. Eilish was seven weeks old, I was seven weeks postpartum unsure as to whether or not she would wake up. A ten minute soak in some warm water was all I wanted. Just five minutes, even, would do. It was a small lifeline to before, the smallest indulgence that had become an impossible task. I didn’t have one…Read More
There was a song. It was a nice song discovered at 38 weeks pregnant, hurriedly added to a birth playlist in a fit of mild panic and forgotten about. It was a song listened to in labour that took on new meaning, it would swell and swoop and with it my excitement would soar. I would grip onto the fireplace through contractions, knuckles white, and cry at the pain and the beauty of each…Read More
I found going back to work hard. Grappling with the idea that things weren’t going to be quite as imagined, pregnant delusions of just being at home with my daughter, getting by and budgeting weren’t going to cut it. So, I packed up Eilish and me in the car, a box full of baby led weaning for an entire two days, and went back to work.Read More
I sit here, last of the festive mince pies being consumed and washed down with a cup of tea in the quiet that can only be found after 10pm at night. Candles are lit, my husband is out for the night and upstairs my daughter slumbers, balled up into the corner of her cot in such a way that is so undeniably her. And to the left of me sits a notebook, brown and unassuming, started at the beginning of December; my hundredth reattempt at journaling (it will stick this time). A few days ago, the day after Boxing Day, I began scribbling notes and memories and words and dreams and ideas. Most of them were the thoughts and feelings that follow me, at the tail end of this year, of 2018. Some of them belong to my brown notebook alone, they are a little too raw even for me, but some, some I thought I would share, simply because it feels good to.Read More
It’s World Mental Health Day today, something that before having a baby would have been but the minutest blip on my radar.
Sometimes I feel like I have made my anxiety up. That I am undeserving of it being acknowledged at all. I brush it off as an “off day”, and push on until sometimes I break and sometimes I don’t. And then it perpetuates.
I was, and can still be, a person of laissez-faire attitude. Life goes on and I tended to be of the ‘it will all turn out alright in the end camp’, because usually it did. But then I gave birth, and it was pretty bad.Read More