When the babymoon is over.

It hit me like a freakin’ freight train as I skulked out of the house on that damp and insipid Wednesday morning. Where the fuck am I going to go? I’m a mother, in my late, but still  thirties. I have a my bonny blue eyed baby boy, just three and half months old at the time of writing, a home, clothes on my back, a lanky, slightly scratchy female chocolate Labrador that will lollop all over your lap but protect me and my kids at the slightest hint of danger (dawdling man in late 60’s approaching wearing flat cap and fishing rod flung over his shoulder) and a mildly huffy, often too tired to talk husband and partner of 15 years. Yet I left the house that morning, and I walked. Not knowing where the hell I was going to go.

If like me your second child was ready to start big school and give you all the freedom a frustrated creative  could ask for, but instead you thought, no I’ll have another baby (bag one before i’m 40 syndrome I think we’ll refer to that one as), then you could be feeling my pain at this stage.

I walked out of the house and realised everything had changed. The visitors had stopped, the gifts all found homes and the baby shower clothes already grown out of and sitting neatly in charity pile. Mums had stopped approaching me with that crazed look of a woman in need of gazing at a newborn (it’s innate right?) and saying things like, ‘I love a newborn, but I couldn’t go through it again (Stick to ya guns girl), instead they amble past with a quick “He’s getting big now isn’t he” (yes and he’s fucking heavy when you’ve been carrying him for a mile up the hill cos he aint a buggy baby – care to offer a bicep?).

That’s it, babymoon is officially over. As I left the house that morning it may as well have been announced in a nasaley voice over a tannoy. “The babymoon is now closing.  Could the lady leaving number 60 please just crack on now parenting 3 kids. ”

Where have all the mothers gone ?

It’s not until you are rampantly navigating that three way travel system up a rickety uneven path (I’ve had smoother outings on a Welsh hiking holiday) and the drizzle starts hitting you in the face and the baby is wailing that sort of wail that made you look on unfavourably at the neglectful parent before you had your own kids, that you feel the loneliness seep through. Motherhood can be very lonely place, I’ve been there twice before, this is the third time. You would think I would have learnt by now.

Then it hit me. Communities and society are changing. We no longer live within spitting distance of our families. Our friends are all segregated, many have had to return to work or are running businesses as one persons income is no longer sufficient to keep one parent at home full time.  The mothers with young infants aimlessly ambling along trying to pacify junior with a ‘shhhh’ that creates more saliva than a disgruntled Staffordshire Bull Terrier are few and far between. They have wisely removed themselves from the streets (in the non prostitute sense) and gone online, where it’s safer, cosier and you don’t have to mount a three way travel system in treacherous conditions just to show your infant the trees  in an attempt to feel purposeful. Me “look at the trees” Infant “waaaaaa”

Yesterday I wrote a post on my other site http://www.thereddit.blog for my bookie fans about World Mental Health Day. I talked about the importance of emotional cues and how reading fuels empathy, unlike the digital world most of us hibernate in for vast parts of the day. Simply seeing a the slight curve of a smile when someone speaks or a raised eyebrow is how we have evolved to relate to and understand our fellow humans.

The old saying “If you can’t beat them, join them’ couldn’t be truer for me right now. As much as I crave real tangible connection with others, I know I have to be where the action is and right now the party is online. So I launched an Instagram page and gave it a name. The Mum Chums. Yes the name bears a hint of a dog food brand but it was all my mangled baby brain could cobble together as I hiked those lonely lumpy streets alone.

My aim 

I am a mum on a mission. Once upon a time I wanted to find some friends who were like me and read lots of books and wanted to talk about them. So I put a post out on Gumtree. This would seem like the days of a carrier pigeon or even communicating with smoke to those crazy millennials but guess what? It worked.  Book fans came forward and then 3 weeks later I was passing a tray of nibbles around to a handfuls of complete strangers whilst asking their opinion on the latest Lionel Shriver novel.

So I don’t see it as an unrealistic challenge to cobble together a group of mums, dads, carers, grandparents…whoever you are (child in tow is the key to this not so exclusive club) who like me,  sometimes feels there’s something missing. A real life conversation, a bosomy hug, someone to hold the baby whilst you try out that new hairstyle you saw on youtube (even though you know it’s two decades too late for that look on you), hearing the words, ‘I’ll get the coffees in’ or just being a pair of empathetic eyebrows, raising and lowering at the right times to woeful tales of calamities.

I’ll find you and I’ll hunt you all down and then I’ll drag you and your eyebrows out into the real world so we can navigate those precarious paths of parenting together. One unpredictable day at a time.

 

 

Advertisements

The inconvenience of grief

In a few weeks’ time, thousands of daughters and sons will be celebrating father’s day.

It will be the 5th time that I will not celebrate fatherhood with the man who raised me.

Four years ago, the first fathers day after my dads death, I spent time with my husband’s family. Upon arrival there was an air of awkwardness as the in-laws shuffled around me not knowing what to say or do. There were hugs and then words.

‘Thanks for coming. It must be hard for you. Especially on a day like today’

I responded too promptly ‘Every day is hard’

‘Yes but it must be especially hard today’ came their swift reply.

Although well meant, their words were for their own sake and not mine. They were worried how to be around me on a day that was all about spending time with fathers. A day where I was not to see or spend time with mine. But it was only back in the comfort of my own home where I could momentarily reflect on the day, that I confirmed again to myself, it hadn’t been one of the hardest days.

I had watched my children playing with their cousins, basked in the midday heat of the sun, nibbled on food fresh from a barbeque and sat contentedly with my husband, who from time to time would slip his hand in mine.

IMG_7218It’s the other days that are the hardest, as I had pointed out to my in -laws upon my arrival. The minute details of a day that catch you unaware like slicing some stilton cheese and enjoying the intense salty flavour that my dad loved so much. It’s looking out of the window at a family of birds in a nearby bush emerging from their nest and tweeting their evening song and remembering my dads fascination with the natural world.

Music is hard to deal with and sometimes2 I will hear a song on the radio that is so familiar, it fills the room with an over bearing presence of my dad. The nostalgia the song evokes is thick and palpable, wavering uncomfortably between euphoria and yearning.

And of course watching my young son giggle and dance, chat and play and know that he was just a 6 month old fetus when my dad passed away and that he will never know his granddad. A man who was worldly, clever, curious, enjoyed food and drink, nature, music and laughter. All the things that make someone human and alive, so quickly evaporated. Never to be again. And then my symmetrical frustration, my dad will never meet his grandson who is also clever, curious and enjoys nature and music the way he did.

39For it’s never about getting through one manufactured day without my dad,  It’s about getting through all the days without him. With the never ending thoughts and feelings that sneak up and surprise me when I’m driving in the car alone and hear a song on the radio and I hear the words count for my own sake. Or I’m reading a story to my daughter and suddenly I realise it is a story about loss death and letting someone go and my voice catches on the last words so I have to swallow my tears.

These are the feelings that I carry day to day, minute to minute. The feelings that those around me, close friends, family and acquaintances are fearful to know. They are unpredictable feelings that are aroused at times that are not always convenient to me or others.

25For grief isn’t convenient. It is raw, erratic, and ill- timed. It grasps you round the throat and constricts your vocal chords when you are sat in a meeting or as you gaze out the window at the sea views, taking in the strength of the waves and the vastness of the ocean. For you see reflected in that vastness your grief.

Time is strange thing and not always a straight forward healer. It is however a reminder that you exist without someone you knew so well and it brings hope that you can carry that grief through life and eventually find some way of existing alongside the enormity of it all.

This year, I am due to give birth to my third child, on fathers day! This will be the 2nd child that my father didn’t get to meet but his memory lives loud and proud in our house through music, toys he has built, endless photographs and of course the cheeky twinkle in the eye of my son.  I am looking forward to meeting our next child and finding in him or her all the things I knew and loved in my father.

I couldn’t imagine a better gift to myself or my dad’s legacy.

22