I’m sat in the middle of the floor of my baby’s nursery as I
write this. Behind me is the bed of the crib that was once mine, then my daughter’s & is now
theirs. To my left are the legs of the crib, half painted & still wet. In
front of me is a brand new wooden high
chair which currently seats Daughter’s dolly (adorned in oversized swimsuit,
previously belonging to Daughter herself), some Johnson’s Baby Lotion which I
shall never use as I prefer organic & ethical products & a hand-me-down
plastic baby toy in suitably garish colours. Also in the room is a large cot,
again, once belonging to Daughter; a beautiful
new moses basket (my proudest & most unnecessary purchase); a new chest of drawers, too small
to actually hold all the clothes & bibs
we seem to have acquired; an electric breast pump; various baby bottles; a
steam steriliser & all that other paraphernalia associated with a new baby.
I often come in & sit in this space, to try &
familiarise myself with the room or just basically in an attempt to come to
terms with the fact that I’m going to be a mother - again.
There will be a new
baby in here in less than five weeks.
I can say this over & over but still it has not sunk in.
Earlier I took my shiny electric breast pump out of its box,
read the instructions, dismantled & reconstructed it & stared at it for
a while. Last time I had a manual one which was such a pain in the arse that I
promised myself an electric one this time around – a lady of leisure with all
my fancy baby gadgets & all that jazz. As I dismantled the pump again I
felt a pang of excitement which was immediately followed by a wave puzzlement.
When on earth did I go from being a [not so] cool, wild
party girl who got rared up by a free shot of Sambuca from the handsome
gentleman at the cheap bar, followed by a dance with the cheap gentleman from
the handsome bar – or was it the other way around? That Sambuca had gone to my
head – to being thrilled at the prospect of not having to manually extract the
milk from my mammaries? Thrilled is perhaps too strong a word, but you see my
point nevertheless?
If you have read any
of my previous posts you will realise that I haven’t been coping with this
pregnancy well & that I am finding it hard to be thrilled by anything at
the moment, but I do feel happy that I am not completely detached & I am
beginning to realise that maybe doing what makes it easier for me & by
buying all this fancy but slightly unnecessary stuff will actually help me to
cope better when the baby is here. I also think that it is
going to be about finding a balance between the partying & the pumping.
I don’t want to lose sight of who I am, or who I can be.
At the moment I am far too round to dance for more than 10
minutes without having to stagger to the nearest seating area & have a bit
of a rest but that’s just pregnancy & I must accept this. It’s not going to
last forever. In fact it’s going to last for five more weeks, maximum. I am 22.
I am not past it by any means, I started young & therefore I have a head
start in that I have the whole of my life to achieve the things I didn’t achieve
when I was 18 & pregnant. I may spend my nights wakeful or sobbing & I
may feel as though I have failed because I didn’t live my life in the order
that my friends & peers lived theirs but I still have time. Sometimes I
find it very difficult to remember this. Sometimes my insecurities bog me down
& I do stupid things & think stupid thoughts & become so absorbed
in myself or in my own sadness that I forget.
Pregnancy is not forever & hopefully shall be without
stretch marks.
My life after pregnancy will be just as it was before –
juggling motherhood, my mammaries & responsibilities with a career (we hope), sexy
shoes & a lot of dancing (though possibly not with strange men).
I could do it before, even when I was a single mum, so
surely even though I have an extra sprog the presence of a man evens that out?
It’ll all be okay – I just have to remind myself of that
sometimes.
