Nine Months In, Nine Months Out

This post has been sitting, written in my drafts for the last month, but I wasn’t sure if it was one that I wanted to post. But, as with all my other blog posts, if there is even a little something that helps those around me to understand the goings on in my grieving, mothering, grappling brain then maybe it’s worth it. I never require your sympathy and I never expect anyone to simply understand. Grief is an abstract work in progress that only the person experiencing it can really comprehend - if they’re lucky! So I try to do my best to put into words my ponderings and feelings - I’ve found that I do this a lot better through written communication than conversation - and with the very best intentions, hope that it can unscramble and demystify my feelings to make it easier for myself and those around me.

I’ve been seeing a lot of these posts lately where photos of mums with bumps ready to burst are shared alongside a picture of their gorgeous, cheeky nine month old newbie with the tagline ‘nine months in, nine months out’. They reminisce over the pregnancy which, after nine months of sleepless parenting, must seem like moons ago. They acknowledge the transformation, marvel at the miracle of life and celebrate their baby’s achievements and milestones. Before a couple of months ago, I didn’t predict or see this as something that would be particular triggering. But, alas(!), the emotions have shown themselves to be overpowering as usual.

Maybe it’s just the flood of hormones from being well into the second trimester of this pregnancy or maybe it’s the shocking realisation of unexpected and forgotten expectations. Either way, I thought I had better put pen to paper, or in my case, fingertips to keyboard, before these thoughts begin to eat away at me and attack the positive steps I have made in the last few months.

Over the last few weeks my mind has been running away with all the ‘what ifs’ and the hypotheticals and the parallel world un-realities. The could’ve beens, the should’ve beens and anything and everything in between. Questions have been bouncing around the borders of my brain, without anywhere to go. What would Posy have looked like at nine months old? What milestones would she have reached? Would she finally fit into her clothes? Would she look more like me or Michael? What would her smile look like? What would her voice sound like? What memories could we have made in the first nine months of her life? All of which are painful and torturous to touch because, of course, even with the very best imagination and predictions based on the Posy we knew, I’ll never find the answers that I’m looking for. I’ll never be able to know my first born daughter at nine months or older, but instead, we’ll only ever have the nine months of pregnancy memories and the two weeks of Posy to hold onto. She will forever be two weeks old when we think of her, the tiniest of all our children.

I can look back at Posy’s pregnancy with such fondness and appreciation and I am grateful that we had that. I’m thankful that I didn’t have a stressful or high risk pregnancy and that it wasn’t riddled with fear and anxiety. I love that I have so many good memories of her, that everything leading up to the birth, the birth included, was so positive and I feel so fortunate that our girl’s short life was so full of joy.

I remember that she was a little mover, loving the late night boogies and early morning wake up kicks. I remember that M first felt her kick when we went to see A Star Is Born and Lady Gaga belted out the big number - a HUGE kick and a tell tale sign of the little diva I was growing. I remember that every time I was in the car on my own and singing along to the radio (badly, with very few correct lyrics), she would start rolling and tumbling about. I remember seeing the waves she made on my belly when I was heavily pregnant. I remember the russian roulette games she played with me of ‘do I, don’t I’ when it came to needing a wee. I remember craving fruit juice and Special K and the very random one-off cravings for prawn crackers, a spoon of Marmite and an oreo milkshake. I remember the sudden bout of sickness in the third trimester when she decided that I could no longer stomach any of the above. I remember how she loved the sound of her Daddy’s voice when he read her The Hobbit and how I knew that they would have been the very best of friends. I remember working a full, rather painful day of work, not realising that I was in early labour and that Posy was on her way. I remember the surprise she gave us when she decided to come two weeks early and how she teased us all with a speedy start to labour which frustratingly slowed right down towards the end. I remember thinking ‘wow, they really do fling them at you’ when she came tumbling into our world and the midwife gave (or threw) her to me. I remember clinging onto her slimey, gorgeous self for dear life in those first few moments and the big eyes that stared up at me. I remember thinking ‘well M has no choice in her name now, she is most definitely a Posy’. I remember the pride I felt watching M dress her and cuddle her for the first time. I remember, even in my exhausted and nauseous state, feeling utter disbelief that this tiny human was ours.

But, if I were to present my personal take on the ‘nine months in, nine months out’ photos, what would the latter even look like? I’d be visiting Posy in the woodland, carrying flowers for her, or going for a walk, or hugging her blanket, or cuddling her little lion or anything else except her. The surprising part being that I would be carrying and growing her little sister. Needless to say, none of this was what I expected to be doing with a nine month old in tow, so it all seems a little surreal compared with the disappointing lack of the very real image that I conjured up nine months ago of what my life would look like. I like to think that Baby Sister would still be a very real part of this image (maybe more of a surprise) but that we would be readying our nine month old Posy in becoming a big sister.

The rate at which life can suddenly take an unexpected turn has been an unfortunate and distressing life lesson for me this year. The unpredictability of what lies ahead has never been one to play on my mind or affect the way in which I approach big changes coming up, but right now I am struggling. I could say that when I was pregnant with Posy, we were naive and innocent when imagining life as her parents and dreaming of raising our first child, but really isn’t that the attitude that everyone wishes they could have, and justify having? Don’t we all wish for the blissful, fearless, uncomplicated pregnancies that lead to being able to take your baby home and enjoying everything that their life brings? I am trying really hard with Baby Sister to look forward to the four months I have left of pregnancy, the nine months after birth and everything that comes after that, but it’s so hard. The sheer disappointment and sadness that comes with remembering all the hopes I had with Posy makes me fearful of dreaming ahead with Roo. I am trying, with everything I have, to allow myself to be excited, to hope, to dream, to expect, to love, but it is all so much harder this time.

I’ve been lodged between a boulder of hope and a rock of fear since finding out that we were expecting again, unable to find my footing, imbalanced and uncomfortable. Since getting to see our healthy, growing baby girl at the scans and feeling her kick I have definitely had periods of time and moments where the fear subsides and I briefly manage to clamber my way to feeling hopeful and happy. However, what I’ve come to realise is that fear can rear its ugly head whenever it fancies; no matter the amount of logic backing its optimistic opposition.

I can put on my brave face, grin through the terrorising thoughts, put the nightmares down to unwanted fantasy and act like there are no other possible outcomes other than this baby arriving safely, able to come home with us. But that doesn’t mean that the fears aren’t still lurking around, in the shadows left by the trauma we have been through this year. As someone who has found her way down a path that leads to constant worry, overthinking and preparing for the worst, and who’s journey to feeling whole and right again has suddenly increased in longevity, I really struggle when the fear takes over. It consumes every thought; it taints every good moment; it bitters the taste of excitement and casts a shadow on all possibilities.

I am clinging onto this little rainbow and I am excited for April, it’s just taking a lot more effort and work this time round. I’m having to try and shake my natural reaction of not thinking about it for fear of being disappointed again, because this baby deserves the very best and all the excitement that we had with Posy. I just wish it was easier, and I wish it didn’t come entangled with weeds of guilt. Guilt for not feeling excited enough, guilt for feeling too excited, guilt for hoping that this baby’s future looks different to Posy’s and guilt for wishing that things were different and yet also the same. It’s a very complex web of emotions but one which I am attempting to navigate the very best that I can.

My hopes for this baby are, albeit similar to those I had for Posy, far more complex. I hope beyond all hope that Roo remains safe for the rest of this pregnancy, that she is born healthy and without complications and that fear has no place at the time of her birth. I hope that we are able to tell her about Posy and that she gets to know her big sister the way we do. I hope that she never feels second best or like we put Posy on a pedestal. I hope that she knows the magnitude of our love for her and understands the depth of hope that her little life has already brought us. But most of all, I hope that her first nine months are everything that Posy's weren't.

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Becca

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