And so it begins

Here I am finally able to blog for the first time in more than a week. I feel like I have so much to say – all on divergent themes and topics, the things that have been rattling around in my head during the week that saw me nursing a sick and clingy boy, trying to juggle two busy days at work following disturbed sleep, spending time with my mum who was visiting and finally escaping the nest for two whole nights for a work trip to Townsville. My first two nights away from Jarvis since he arrived. There is a blog post there particularly. But it will have to wait as nostalgia takes precedence here tonight. To get there, we have to go back to the beginning.

The night that labour began. It was a stormy and rainy Monday, it felt just like tonight. The stretch and sweep of that afternoon did its job and the pain started in earnest. I would glance up at the clock each time it started. 10 minutes turned into 5 minutes in a matter of hours and I thought that maybe just maybe, I would meet my baby tonight. Tonight, one year ago.

As the storm sent flashes across the sky and crashes to my ears I could feel that it was finally happening. I didn’t admit it at first. I had already felt pain when this photo was taken, I felt exaperated and huge and was trying to coax this baby to come out to visit us. I knew nothing then of how this child would change me, nothing of the challenges ahead.

I had no idea how long it would take, that I would need to push past mental and physical obstacles and make some tough decisions. For now, I felt only a giddy sense of expectation and anticipation underpinned by nervous energy.

So I swayed, I walked and I waited. As midnight drew closer, the pain intensified and I strapped on my TENS machine. Which became my little security button. I pressed it every time the pain hit and I was comforted by the ritual and the vibrating pulses it sent through my back. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. I leant on the fit ball, the cat tree and the chair. I breathed. I swayed. I leant forward on a nest of cushions and stayed there for hours probably. It seems so much like a dream now. Tonight, one year ago.

But it was not to be. He would not be born tonight, nor tomorrow. So here in this little house I would stay. Pacing the floorboards, rolling the fit ball, scaring the neighbours. Breaking down, surrendering, but not giving in. Wondering out loud how much longer it would take and what kind of mother I would be.

My journey had just began. Tonight, one year ago.

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