363 days ago I was in tears. They were tears of frustration, of despair, and of fear. I was due to be induced. The Baby was late. She had made herself far too comfortable and didn’t want to move (sadly, this was not a sign of things to come).
I, however, was far from comfy. I had SPD, needed crutches to walk and a tubi-grip to support The Bump and my bones, was really quite tired due to anaemia, and had moved into a house that was infested with ants and full of unfinished jobs. I was 5’ 3” tall and 5’ 10” wide. I was miserable.
The hospital was busy and short-staffed and short-bedded and I was short-fused and short-changed. No induction today. I sat at the dining room table, imagining the Christmas tree in the corner, all twinkly with fairy-lights, snow on the ground outside, and me. Here. Still pregnant. Growing ever larger by the day, unable to leave the dining room lest I get wedged in the door frame.
Later, I lay on the sofa and cried. I was so disappointed not to be meeting The Baby today, and upset that already two weeks of The Boyfriend’s leave had passed and if The Baby didn’t arrive soon, there would be no more leave left.
Ice-cream, terribly trashy movies (Valentine’s Day, anyone?) and sympathy from my mum helped the afternoon to pass, and then…what was that? Most likely Braxton Hicks. Time check? 4pm. Probably nothing.
5pm and there it was again. Say nothing yet.
5.45pm. Think I may have started actual genuine contractions. No, really. I’ll just keep an eye on it.
This was it. It was 9pm and they were still far apart but it was definitely It.
10pm and The Boyfriend went to bed. I joined him a little before midnight but not for long. I wanted the Tens machine. He made me swear I was in labour. I swore.
The hospital had shut its doors. We drove to the next one, 19 miles away. This was not how I had imagined it would be. The Baby was not meant to arrive here. Oh, maybe it will be as I had imagined after all, we were sent home after two hours of being ignored.
Off to the proper hospital at midday. I think the sun was shining that afternoon. Maybe not; gas and air, pethidine and an epidural may have skewed my memory a little.
Suddenly it’s Sunday morning, although I have no clue about time or anything at all, because she is here. Screaming and writhing, being weighed and measured, and a “Nine pounds nine!” is being shouted across the theatre.
9lbs 9oz? I think I’m going to be sore.
And this is it. I am a mum. And here she is, my daughter, my baby girl. My world. My life. My love.
The Baby turns 1 in two days time and I am still not sure that that’s correct (I really must have words with someone about this). I am sure, however, that while these last twelve months haven’t always been full of happiness, they have always been full of wonder and adoration and more love than I ever could have imagined.
This isn’t the end, as it may seem at times; the end of babyhood, the end of being a new mum, but the beginning of a whole new adventure, a new chapter in this mystery book, and a squillion new memories waiting to be made each day. And I really, really can’t wait to make them.