On parenting

A year into motherhood: Forever changed, forever the same

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When I look back on my life before my daughter was born, all I do is search for her.

Where was she on our wedding day? Where was she on that city break? Did my mum hold onto her while I took my A-levels? Did she sleep by my bed in halls?

I search our photos for a pram just out of shot, or a tiny hand clutching my trouser leg, because I struggle to believe there was ever a time before.

I knew that having a baby would change my life, I just didn’t know how.

I didn’t know that whilst the tiredness, relentlessness, and lack of moments to myself would be hard to adjust to, it would be the weight on my heart that would change me the most.

I knew that I’d love her, but I had no idea what that love would feel like. She’s starting nursery now, and I had to fill out a form explaining what she needs to be happy. A form about me would just say: HER. Bring me her. Show me she’s OK and everything will be fine. She’s what happiness looks like for me now.

Our baby will turn one this week, and the oddest thing about this milestone is how simultaneously quickly and slowly this year has passed by. I’ve lived every second of the last 12 months, and yet it’s slipped through my fingers. There have been days when I’ve been awake for and aware of almost every hour, but I’m still not sure how quite so many of them have gone by.

One minute she was a newborn who lay down for most of the day, and now she’s a little person, on a one-child-mission to destroy our lounge. I can’t tell you how a year has managed to sneak passed in the life of a girl whom I swear we only just brought home.

Back at the start, once the initial weeks of fear and feeding and figuring it all out were done, I realised that I didn’t know where to put myself. I wasn’t sure what day-to-day life with a baby was supposed to look like once you’d got your sh*t together. But then I joined some classes and groups, I tried doing too much, I tried doing too little, and I found a balance that worked for us. Maternity leave is an education in how to cope when you feel lost. You’ve got to do it your way, the only problem is that it’s you who has to work out what that is.

Motherhood has changed who I am and confirmed who I’ve always been, all at the same time.

Becoming a mum wiped the floor with me – it shattered my heart, rewired my brain, and stretched, scarred and knackered my body more than even the most high-tempo zumba class ever could. It’s fundamentally changed how I see the world, and given me a sense of purpose like nothing I’ve ever done before. It’s slowed my desired pace of life right down, and made me see the benefits of a life lived locally.

It’s done all of this whilst also cementing everything I’ve always known to be true: That I need fresh air everyday. That too much small talk leaves me cold. That I never wanted to go out on Saturday nights anyway. That I need to be creative to feel alive.

The trick, if you can manage it, is to let the person you’ve always been find a way to thrive in this new world. It’s not easy – I’m still working on it. We all just have to keep on working on it.

We’re moving into a new chapter now – I’m going back to work part-time, and our daughter will be looked after by somebody else whilst I’m gone. She went to nursery for a few hours last week, and I went to a café to write this. I cried into my hot chocolate as I typed, and then later my scrambled eggs. I’m just not used to being away from her.

It’s funny because so much of parenting is about trying to secure time away from your baby. You work hard to get them to nap so that you can rest. To play with a toy long enough for you to drink a hot drink. To. just. stay. there. whilst you go to the toilet for once by yourself. But it’s all short term, they’re always close by (she can push the bathroom door open now anyway). I hope she knows that I’ll still be close by.

This time last year I was about to have a baby, and now I have a one year old, a toddler waiting to happen. Time’s flown by, we’ve all changed and grown up, and discovered just how strong we can be.

All I want for this baby on her very first birthday is to bring her as much joy as she’s brought me.

 

Almost one

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Almost oneOur daughter will turn one this month, so I’m going through the inevitable nostalgic phase ahead of her first birthday, looking back on this time last year with rose tinted glasses firmly in place.

Pregnancy was so great!

Recovering from the birth didn’t hurt that much, did it?

Weren’t those first few days with a new baby just magical!

I relive the moment she was born everyday. I wrote about it soon afterwards to help make sure I wouldn’t forget it, but really there was no danger of that.

When we’re having a tough day or a tricky moment, I look at her face and I see the baby who was handed to me almost a year ago. I see the tiny person I’d kept warm all those months who’d finally come out to say hello. I see all our naivety about how challenging this job would be, and all our potential to get it right. Sometimes it feels like we’ve travelled so far from the start that it’s difficult to connect that baby girl with the one crawling around our house now, determined to gnaw on everything in sight. But they’re both my girl.

I feel guilty for feeling nostalgic, like I’m saying that I preferred her at the beginning to how she is now. But I understand from other mothers that EVERYBODY feels this way. Everybody misses the start, because we had it all to come. It doesn’t mean we’re not enjoying this moment too – I am, she’s so much fun – we’re just doing it whilst also stunned by how quickly time passes by.

I’ve been asking myself whether motherhood is what I thought it would be, and the answer is: of course not. When I imagined having a baby, I imagined cuddling them on the sofa and sitting reading them a story in their bedroom. That was about it. But there’s a bit more to it than that. Parenthood is the steepest learning curve I’ve ever climbed but I wouldn’t change a thing. It feels good to have finally grown up.

I have more to say about this first year – I’ve been writing another blog in my head for days – but I needed to talk about this first and then move on. To acknowledge the weight of nostalgia on my mind as we approach this milestone, and to give myself permission to feel it. I really can’t be bothered to add ‘Spent too much time thinking about how wonderful it was when she was born, and crying over newborn photos’ to the list of stuff I feel guilty about, so I’m simply not going to do it.

Nostalgia only comes along when something in our lives has been so good that we want to go back and do it all again, so I’m grateful to have such an incredible reason to feel it. If a year this emotional, challenging, joyful and life-changing doesn’t justify celebrating with a piece of cake, a party hat and a look back through the photo album, I don’t know what does.

Be your own adjudicator

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Be your own adjudicator‘Should’ can be an unhelpful word, particularly when we use it as a weapon with which to beat ourselves.

Life is fast and competitive and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by our awareness of what other people are doing. I enjoy feeling connected to people I know and people I don’t via social media, and getting little insights into lives that are different from mine. But I can also feel myself drawing unhelpful comparisons. Noticing things that other people do that I don’t, and interpreting them as evidence of my failings.

But just because something exists as a possibility, it doesn’t mean that you should do it. It’s just one of the options. Do it or don’t, no-one cares.

My problem is that I hear ‘should’ when it’s not even being said. I confuse hearing somebody say “I am doing XYZ” with “You should be doing XYZ.” I see people talking about how they’re raising their children or building their careers or decorating their homes, and forget that what they’re saying has no relation to me. 

I’ve always struggled with the fear that I’m not doing the right thing. I don’t mean morally or legally – fear is such a dominant emotion for me that I’m always pretty confident I’m on the right side of the law. No, I’m worried about doing The Optimum Thing.

If we’re on holiday and looking for a restaurant, I’ll worry about choosing the ‘right’ one. What if we’d have had a better time elsewhere? What if that table by the window would have enhanced our experience? What if sitting this near the loos ruins the ambience? What if it’s actually this thought process that’ll ruin our night?

Be your own adjudicatorAnd now that I’m a parent, I – like every single mother on earth, probably – worry that I’m not doing everything I ‘should’ do for my daughter. Should we be at a class? Should we be socialising? Should we be playing educational games indoors? Should I be doing more to make the most of her – whatever that means? As if just loving and caring for her with everything I’ve got isn’t enough.

Parenting is relentless decision making. And what’s harder than being the person who has to make them all, is the realisation that nobody’s going to come along and let you know if you’re doing it right. You just have to trust yourself in the moment.

When our daughter was very small, I used to imagine there would be a time in years to come when she’d say to me: “Mum, you know that day when I was so upset in January 2018? It’s because I wanted you to heat my milk up/put me to bed/ turn off that unbearable episode of Gossip Girl.” But as the sleep deprivation started to wear off, I realised: That’s not going to happen. 

You’ll never know if you did the right thing, because the right thing doesn’t really exist. There’s no list, charting all the options in order of preference, nor is there a jury waiting to judge you on your choices. We have to be our own adjudicators.

It’s true for all areas of our lives. There’s no adjudicator who’s going to come and tell you which career path you ‘should’ have taken, which date you ‘should’ have gone on, or which Netflix series you ‘should’ have chosen to best entertain your baby. We did what we did based on the information we had at the time – there’s no other way to do it.

Be your own adjudicatorSince becoming a mother I’ve learnt that, to be happy, I have to accept my choices as I make them, one by one. Decisions require my attention quickly; I don’t always see them coming. I can’t always nail it, and, if I’m not careful, I’ll spiral into a long and pointless thought process about what I ‘should’ have done instead.

But now I’ve realised how unhelpful that is, and how many moments with my baby I’ll miss if I spend all my time analysing what I’ve done in the past.

Instead it’s better to focus on making decisions that suit us both today. My daughter is the most important person in the world to me, and I’m that to her, too. So when I’m deciding how we spend our time, it’s OK that I do so with what I need in mind as well – my energy levels, my mental health – because if I’m well, so is she. As I’ve written before, the inherent guilt of parenting makes it hard to prioritise yourself, but with nine months of experience under my belt, I can tell you: you must.

So I want to park the ‘should’ and have a little more faith. In myself as a parent and as a fallible human being, and in the need for there to be healthy differences between how we all lead our lives.

Because time will pass, no matter how we spend it. And to hand more of our precious hours over to regret, rather than to joy, and to self-criticism rather than kindness, feels like the kind of waste we should all do our best to avoid.

33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd year

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33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd yearYou know the drill by now – I’ll turn 33 this week, so, as is tradition, I’ve written a list of things I have to say at this point in time. This time it’s some of the lessons this period has taught me. My 33rd year has been dominated by pregnancy and my daughter’s first seven months in the world, so they’re mostly about that, with a few bonus points chucked in for good measure.

(Here are the lists I wrote when I turned 29, 30, 31 and 32, in case you’d like to catch up before we get going.)

1. I’ve learnt that you have absolutely no idea what it’s like to have a baby until you have a baby and that, even then, you only really know what it’s like for you.

2. I’ve learnt that the return of mid-length shorts to the world of fashion could not have come at a better time. I spend most of the day bending down to pick up my child and I need to be able to do so without fear of arrest.

3. I’ve learnt that optimism is heading down to theatre to have a caesarean section with your knickers on in the hope that the surgeons will just cut along the waistband.

4. I’ve learnt that marriage is having to take those knickers off and hand them to your husband to store in the pocket of his scrubs. The spiral of indignity started there and ended… hang on, when will that be?

5. I’ve learnt that when you have a baby your body changes. Mine is bigger, it’s wobblier, and it’s scarred. Of course it is, I housed a giant child for nine months and then had her cut out of me. I am grateful for everything my body let me do and I am happy to look a little different as a result. Women, there’s enough nonsense out there about how we should or shouldn’t look. The least we can do is refuse to add our own voices to the noise.

6. I’ve learnt that instead of thinking ‘What would Beyoncé or Oprah or Emma Thompson do?’, it’s more useful to think ‘What would I do in this situation if I wasn’t worried about what anybody else thought?’

7. I’ve learnt that having a baby makes you look at your parents completely differently. Finally, true empathy and gratitude starts to kick in. Oh wow, you did all this for me. Holy sh*t, this is hard work. Thank you, thank you so much.

8. I’ve learnt that when I look at a picture of my daughter on my phone, I think: That’s my heart right there. That is a photograph of my heart. Oh no wait, that’s 76576 photographs of my heart and my phone memory is full AGAIN.

9. I’ve learnt that marriage is hard when you’ve started a family because you both spend all your time cuddling somebody else. It’s important to make a little room for each other too when you can.

10. I’ve learnt that if you want to eat an iced bun you should eat an iced bun because life is short and cake is delicious.

33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd year

Picture by @ben_cameron. I’ve learnt that he can articulate my feelings in a drawing.

11. I’ve learnt that, whereas I used to be too afraid to wear a jumpsuit because you have to take the entire thing off to go to the toilet (what if somebody walked in?), so many people at our local hospital have now seen me do so much more than that that I no longer care. Join the freakin’ list, lads.

12. I’ve learnt that there is a serious gap in the market for a wearable drinking vessel for breastfeeding mums. No activity on this earth makes you thirstier, and yet you don’t have any hands free to hold a drink. Come on, someone, invent something.

13. I’ve learnt that people who show up at your door with food during the first few weeks of your baby’s life are the greatest people in the world.

14. I’ve learnt that perfect strangers think you don’t know very much about your own child. “She’s tall isn’t she!” Yep. “She’s a big baby isn’t she!” Uhuh. “She’s long for that pram isn’t she!” SHE USED TO LIVE IN MY BODY. I AM AWARE OF ALL OF THESE THINGS.

15. I’ve learnt that all it would take for me to be interested in the World Cup is a nice man in a blue waistcoat in charge of the England team.

16. I’ve learnt that one of the greatest gifts motherhood has given me is the opportunity to say “Come on then, let’s get you home!” into the pram when I need to get out of an awkward social situation.

17. I’ve learnt that it’s hard when you’re in charge of a small person’s life not to see everything else in the world as utterly trivial. But it’s important that you don’t.

18. I’ve learnt that no human being on this earth yields more power than a baby who finds themselves momentarily without a nappy.

19. I’ve learnt that the reason it’s so difficult to just be ourselves is because who we are never stops changing.

20. I’ve learnt that when people tell you to make the most of your free time before you have a baby you think ‘Yeah yeah yeah, what does that even mean?’, and then you give birth and you realise exactly what that would have meant, but it’s too late.

21. I’ve learnt that I’ll feel sick for the 12 hours before I’m going to be away from my daughter, but that, if it’s to go and do something fun, and she’s in safe hands, I will feel better when I get there, and that the time away will do me good.

33 lessons I learnt during my 33rd year22. I’ve learnt that it is possible to feel nostalgic about things that you found really difficult. Pregnancy was tough – my back hurt, I had migraines all the time, and I became so enormous that I could hardly walk. But still, sometimes I miss it. I miss carrying her around with me, and the freedom only retrospect has made me realise that I had.

23. I’ve learnt that any mother you see feeding a baby will probably have been through quite a journey to get that child to eat in a way that works for them both. I thought it would be simple, but it wasn’t.

24. I’ve learnt that my hopes and dreams outside motherhood are very much still alive and well, it’s just that I have to use my free time more wisely now to make sure they happen.

25. I’ve learnt that the second you start to get used to whatever stage your baby’s at, they’ll move onto the next one. Don’t you dare start to think that you know what you’re doing.

26. I’ve learnt that I wear make-up for my own benefit. When I first became a mum, I discovered that I felt better if the face looking back at me in the mirror looked as nice as I think it can. It was my view I was concerned with, not anybody else’s.

27. I’ve learnt that having a baby increases your ability to hold a grudge. I’m sorry, was that a negative word/thought/exhalation in my daughter’s direction? Goodbye forever.

28. I’ve learnt that it’s good to do things that scare you. Maternity leave can be daunting as hell, as I wrote here, but it does help if you leave the house, try something new, and meet people. If you’d told me last year that I would join a choir and be up for singing with them in front of other people, I’m not sure I’d have believed you. A lot can change in a year.

29. I’ve learnt that you discover just how good your hearing is when your child is born. I’d be able to hear our daughter crying through a typhoon. I can’t hear my own mobile phone ring when it’s in my hand, but at least I’ve got her covered.

30. I’ve learnt that if somebody sat you down and really made you understand what the first few weeks of having a baby are like, you simply wouldn’t do it. So thank goodness they don’t.

31. I’ve learnt that if somebody had sat me down and tried to articulate how incredible seeing our baby being born would feel, they still wouldn’t have been able to prepare us.

32. I’ve learnt that I feel like I’ve aged a lot more than just one year in the last 12 months.

33. I’ve learnt that, even though it’s been hard and tiring and more emotional than a season finale of Grey’s Anatomy, I wouldn’t change a single thing.

On maternity leave and figuring out what it means to be you now

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I spent so much time thinking about giving birth that I didn’t have a moment to wonder what maternity leave would be like. It was just the bit that would come next. Maybe I’d go out for coffee sometimes, who knew.

And when I had given birth, the recovery (from a caesarean section) and the process of learning to look after our baby was so brutal that I believed I’d never do anything else again.

I remember standing in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror, and not recognising the woman staring back at me. I remember thinking through every hobby and activity I’d ever enjoyed before – writing, eating in restaurants, washing my hair – and metaphorically hurling every one of them out of the window. You won’t be doing that any more, I thought, it’s just sweating and surviving for you now. If you get to eat a meal every now and then too, that’ll just be a bonus.

But then as time passed, the baby put on weight, and my scar began to heal, a major need to leave the house started to kick in.

But where the hell are you supposed to go?

Once the thrill of making it to your local supermarket, around the park, and to a café with the pram wears off, you start wanting to branch out. To see other people, to visit another part of town, and maybe even to do something energetic or creative. The baby needs to get out, too. They need fresh air, the option of a nap on the move, and the chance to look at other faces and things. My features are only so interesting, I realise that.

Whilst you know that you’ll be responsible for looking after the baby everyday, you don’t appreciate that how you both spend the hours around that will be up to you as well. Weeks can look long and daunting if you don’t have a plan or two to look forward to, or places you know you can go. You can feel a bit lost and alone.

I found it really, really hard to express this for a while because I couldn’t get passed the need to make it clear that I love my daughter. I felt so guilty for needing more in my day than just changing and feeding and napping etc. that I feared that I was being ungrateful and letting her down. But I realise now that when we have a varied week and we socialise it’s good for both of us, and not a selfish act, as my hormones might suggest.

On maternity leave and figuring out what it means to be you nowSeeking activities and groups to join can make you feel a bit vulnerable. You basically have to build yourself a whole new community; one that’s available during the day, ideally nearby, and willing to spend time with you. It’s a bit like dating, except in many cases you see people’s breasts before you know their name (or maybe that is what dating’s like nowadays, I’ve been out of the game a long time).

Antenatal classes were great and gave us a lovely little group of friends in the same boat. The internet has also been a massive help. When the weeks were starting to look a bit empty, I went online (Hoop.co.uk lists activities to do with children by location) with a policy that if anything interested me even slightly, I’d try it once. I felt the need to be brave for myself and for my daughter. I want her to grow up believing that she can walk into a room and participate with confidence, so I need to start modelling that for her now.

So I went for it. I joined a boxing class, a parents choir, and started baby-wearing dance lessons. We started going to a nursery rhymes session, and to baby cinema for a much-needed sit down in the dark. I’m doing things I’d previously have been too afraid to do in front of other people – singing, dancing, exercising – and I’m doing it with my daughter – because of my daughter – and we’re both happier for it. We’re not doing activities everyday, I’ve just found some ways to give us a bit of variation.

Not everybody you meet at classes is going to be your pal and that’s fine, there are only so many more WhatsApp groups I can handle anyway. But you never know, you might make a friend or two, or at least find nice people to chat to whilst you’re there. Most of all it’s about knowing that you need to be somewhere at a certain time, that people are expecting to see you, and that you and your child will have a good time out of the house.

Of course, it’s important to strike the right balance between doing stuff and resting. Parenting is exhausting, so as much as I’ll say that we need to get out, we need to be at home too. We need sofa time and cuddles and to catch up with Grey’s Anatomy. We need a bit of time to do our own thing – in the same room but in our own space. I’m learning more everyday about us as a duo and what we need to get by.

You spend a lot of time in your head when you’ve just had a baby – alone but in company, at home with your small person – and it can take a while to give yourself permission to prioritise what you both need, and to find the courage to put yourself out there.

But when you do start, and you see the benefits it brings to you and your child, you know for sure there’s nothing to feel guilty about at all.

What I did not expect when I was expecting

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What i did not expect when i was expectingOur baby is three months old now and I’ve finally found time to sit down and write, as it’s true what they say about it all starting to get a bit easier by this point. And thank goodness for that.

I wrote before our daughter was born about how impossible it was to be ready for something this life changing. And I know now that I was definitely right about that. But there are some things that have been particularly unexpected, which I wanted to share.

That feeding a baby would be the hardest work I’ve ever done

You just put your breast in their mouth, right? They’ll smell the milk and just automatically start suckling, yeah? You’ll be able to cook a meal, ride a bike, and write a 12-novel series with a child attached to your body, eh boys?

Breastfeeding comes naturally for many, but for us it has been tricky, and I did not see that coming. I gave birth via c-section and with that can come a slow or reduced milk supply. It also brings with it a mother who is recovering from major surgery. And you’re working with a newborn baby who doesn’t necessarily know that they need to eat, so you have to wake them up for each feed. We did get there – we put the hours in and we got our girl’s weight up – but I wasn’t expecting that element of becoming a mum to be so difficult.

I also didn’t expect to give myself such a hard time along the way. We do combination feeding – meaning our baby has formula and breast milk. It’s a pretty unremarkable sentence to read, but it remains a battle everyday to forgive myself for it. I don’t have enough milk for her, and she requires a lot, so there we have it. But people can be very hard on new parents about feeding, and we can therefore be tough on ourselves, too. But we can only do what we can with what we have.

The opportunity to help a little baby grow is a gift, and it’s important not to confuse having to come up with a Plan B with doing a bad job.

That I would feel so guilty

I feel guilty when I’m pleased that she’s asleep because it means that I can eat breakfast/take a shower/sit down and stare into the abyss.

I feel guilty when I spend the morning preparing us to go out and I’m concentrating more on keeping us on schedule than I am on her beautiful face.

I feel guilty when she’s napping on me and we’re having the nicest cuddle but I’m desperate for the toilet so I have to put her down.

I feel guilty when I get nostalgic for how little she was as a newborn, when she is absolutely perfect as she is right now.

I feel guilty when I feel guilty because I’m wasting time that I should just spend enjoying her.

I didn’t expect to fall so hard into this trap, but I’m slowly starting to manage the feeling better. This baby needs a mother who is clean, who interacts with other human beings, and who has the opportunity to empty her bladder. I’m sure she wouldn’t really expect me to feel guilty about that.

That every person we spoke to at the start had the potential to make or break our day

You’re a mess of hormones and exhaustion at the beginning and, in the mother’s case, you’re probably also in a fair amount of pain. That makes you vulnerable, so when people speak to you about your baby – how they’re fed, what they’re wearing, how much they weigh – what they say and how they say it has a big impact on how you feel.

One minute we’d think we were doing a good job, and the next we’d think we were the worst parents in the world. And though it was partly because we’d never done it before, that feeling was also hugely influenced by the interactions we had with hospital staff and other baby-related professionals.

Some people were incredible, just amazing, and some really could and should have been gentler. I didn’t expect to hang on perfect strangers’ every word like we did, or to be so desperate for approval.

But with time you learn who to listen to and who to ignore, and you stop feeling like you need permission to do things a particular way for your baby. You fear that confidence will never come, but it does.

That wind would become our greatest enemy

If you’d asked me what I’d got up to on a Friday night last year, I’d have told you that I’d been out for a meal, or to the cinema, or that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa after Coronation Street.

Ask me this year and I’ll say that Leon and I spent all evening trying to get our baby girl to burp. Life is wild.

The funny thing about having a baby is that you want them to do things that in later years you’ll have to explain are socially unacceptable. I want her to do the loudest burp she can muster, and I’ll happily have her do it in my face. If it gets it out of her body and stops her crying from the pain, mate, she can record it and set it as my ringtone.

It’s a strange moment when you find yourself thinking that the best present your child could give you right now is a large gust of wind, but here we are.

That love and pain are so closely linked

I didn’t expect it to be possible to feel such joy and such agony at the same time.

The love is so huge, so intense, that my whole body aches with it. When our daughter cries, I feel like I’m dying and I would do anything – ANYTHING – to make it stop. And it’s not because it’s loud (though it IS, her lungs are not kidding), it’s because it hurts my heart.

Before you have a baby, babies only exist in general terms. You know that babies cry, babies poo, babies are rather partial to milk… but once you’ve had one, there’s no longer anything general about it. There’s just this very specific child whose every movement, every sound, and every need becomes your world.

I didn’t expect to feel it all so physically, for my body to react so strongly to her existence. But I guess that’s what it is to be this connected to somebody, and to love them with all you have.

The drama of it all is so consuming – the highs and the lows, the smiles and the cries – but there’s no such thing as a part-package deal. We’re here for all of it, every emotion and every pain. And for the opportunity to feel it for this girl, this beautiful baby girl who’s come along and taken over our lives, I’m grateful every single day.

Perhaps you’ve had a similar experience or you’ve found other things surprising. Either way, I’d love to know. 

I remember

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I remember my alarm going off at 5.30am like we were getting up to go on holiday. But we weren’t. We were getting up to go and have a baby.

I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room and the midwife coming to say we were first on the list and we’d be going down to theatre soon. That c-section we’d talked about, it was going to be happening soon.

I remember going onto the ward and putting on a gown and compression stockings and Leon getting into scrubs. We took a selfie. We look terrified.

I remember walking down to theatre and entering a room filled with strangers and implements and bright lights. I remember remembering to be brave.

I remember placing my trust and my heart into the hands of an anaesthetist I’d just met. I remember she was nothing but amazing throughout.

I remember what it feels like to park your phobias at the door – of needles, of incisions, of surgery – in the spirit of the greater good. Our baby.

I remember having a catheter inserted and realising that when I thought the upside of having to have the baby this way was that there’d be fewer opportunities for me to lose my dignity, I was wrong.

I remember losing all feeling from the chest down. I remember panicking. I remember calming down. I remember hearing “You’re doing really well, Charlotte” again and again and needing to hear it. Needing to be the child in the room for just a few minutes more.

I remember a sheet going up and it starting.

I remember suddenly chilling right out. I remember making jokes, people laughing. They weren’t funny I’m sure, but when a woman with her bikini line cut open makes a joke YOU LAUGH.

I remember feeling some pushing and some pulling and being absolutely able to handle it. I was doing this. Somehow I was letting this happen.

I remember that I’d almost forgotten what this whole procedure was for until the anaesthetist said “I can see a foot”.

I remember nothing and then everything. Time stopping and then speeding by. I heard “You’ve got to see this,” the sheet came down and our baby was there in front of us. A girl, they said, you’ve got a baby girl.

I remember that we laughed. A deranged, euphoric, overwhelmed guffaw at the sight of our giant, gooey, bright pink and white baby daughter, shattering our hearts with her very first cry.

I remember her disappearing out of sight and calling “Mummy’s here” as she shrieked from the scales. Mummy. Because that’s my name now.

I remember the moment she was placed into my arms, the softest, most precious bundle I’ve ever held.

I remember her looking straight at me, with these enormous, beautiful eyes that I couldn’t believe the two of us had made.

I remember looking at Leon and the world feeling smaller than ever before. There’s just three of us in it now. That’s it.

I remember the moment our lives changed forever.