I spent the majority of my twenties sharing a bed with boys in some bid to find the personal calm that I now feel waking up to the face of my twelve week old guy. As promised, motherly love is like nothing else and I was shocked at how hard it hit me. But I’ve lost my identity and gained a new one in twelve weeks. Every morning trying to work it all out while I look at his chubby little cheeks through sleep deprived eyes.
Pregnancy and birth in a global pandemic is a cluster fuck. Motherhood on any normal day is you running a marathon but instead of cheering you get everybody’s opinion hurled at you from the sidelines. I’ve never been a runner.
Rushing through A&E on his fifth day, we were confronted with row after row of ventilators. People on trollies in the hallways. I had no idea what I was doing when they sent my husband away for four nights and hooked the little man up to a tube, regularly taking his blood. I’m not cut out for this I repeated in my head again and again. I sobbed as I pumped breast milk to go into the tubes. This was day seven on a few hours sleep after a traumatic birth.
But he made it through. We have bonded. Lockdown has provided the quiet we both needed to get to know each other and heal. To learn how to be with each other. I’m fiercely territorial of him and whenever he’s held by another I wonder how good they’ve been at distancing...
Now lockdown is ending, I am reluctant to share him with anyone else. I’m not ready to come out of the bubble. To hear everyone else’s opinions and try and be “normal”.
So I’ll lie here and watch you sleep little one, writing this story about how you taught me bravery, resilience and peace during a global crisis.