Progesterone and Bed Rest

That is what saved my second child's life. Some would argue it was prayer, or God's will, but to be honest I don't put much stock in either of those things these days. No, I put my faith in modern medicine, and my faith was rewarded.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

On the 16th of November I found out I was pregnant again.

It was a mere six weeks after my second miscarriage, and I was patiently awaiting my first period post-D&C. While I had dealt with the emotional fallout from yet another loss, I would be lying if I said it hadn't left me feeling a little nervous about falling pregnant again. Rod and I had agreed to wait until the new year before even thinking about trying for another child, and we hadn't been intimate since I had last fallen pregnant. I just wasn't ready. After my last post - my cleansing - with my confidence renewed and my burdens lifted, we indulged in a little morning delight. I thought nothing of it; after all, it had been a month since my D&C, and any day my cycle would resume its monthly dance across the calendar.

But when Fate intervenes, she always has her way.

D and C are silent letters

I have always considered myself a brave person. Not in the traditional "ride my faithful steed into battle" sense (although, if it came down to it, I don't think I'd have any trouble ending someone), but in the sense that I've never had trouble facing situations bigger than myself. I take pride in my Viking blood. I might shake in my boots, but steadfast I stand. I am open and honest about who I am, I am willing to make myself vulnerable at the risk of mockery and abuse, I am willing to take on any responsibility that may find itself at my door, and I am willing to admit my faults and my mistakes. Every time life has stuck a lance through me, I've stood back up, wiped off the blood, and snarled "come at me, bro". I like to think I do this with grace, but more often than not it is a bloody affair, grotesque to behold. I value my scars. I take strength from my courage.

But today I don't feel strong, and I don't feel brave.

As I type this I am shaking, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is pounding.

I have many reasons for writing about this now. None of them are for attention or pity. I despise both of these things. I write this because, while I may be private, I am not secretive. I write this to hopefully curb insensitive questions. I write this because there is therapy in confession. I write this because I am not ashamed. I write this because it is my truth. And the truth will always out.

On the 1st of April I suffered my first miscarriage.

Busy Days and Sleepless Nights: Bunking With My Hooligan

For my sins, I have never been a good sleeper.  The interior of my skull is a noisy place, and it is seldom that I am able to ignore the noise sufficiently to put together 8 contiguous hours of sleep.  From a child-rearing point of view, this is fantastic, because every parent in the world has entered into the unwritten agreement with their children that sleep is a thing of the past, banished to the same realm as dinner in quiet restaurants and furniture not decorated with brown handprints.  While my son is not as bad as some of the protagonists of horror stories I have heard from friends and colleagues, when he decides sleep is simply not part of his schedule, he certainly sticks to that decision.

Never was this more evident than the recent holiday I took with my wife and son to the majestic Natal Midlands.  For my wife and I, this was to be four days of bliss in (Relative) silence in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.  For my 2-year-old son Ricky, however, this was a whole new set of shit to climb on and break and explore and drag into the house and put in his mouth and break some more.  I have never seen him as turnt up as he was during this holiday, and his normally endless reservoir of energy seemed even more endless, like some ungodly perpetual motion machine.  You would think that all that activity would tucker him out, but no sirree, when bedtime rolled around the little bugger was just as amped as ever.

Ricky's First Holiday {In Pictures}

On the 26th of February Rod and I had officially been together for ten years. To mark the occasion we thought we'd take a trip back to the Midlands where Rod had proposed five years earlier. We also thought it would be the perfect place for Ricky's first holiday, since we had yet to take a family trip after his birth nearly two years ago! The Midlands is a beautiful part of our diverse country, and definitely one of my favourite places to holiday, and the endless green proved popular with our little man who ran around like a crazy person, exploring every nook and cranny. We booked a cottage at Caversham Mill for three nights, and were told upon arrival that we had been moved to a bigger cottage. Our "backyard" led right down to the Lions River, with beautiful views stretching across miles of endless green. I didn't object. 

On the second day we ventured into Pietermaritzburg to visit my Grammy before heading into Durban for a couple hours. My aunt Anne lives in Durbs, so we met up with her for a coffee and a catch up on the promenade before letting Ricky barrel head first into the ocean. If there are two things that Ricky loves, it's sand and water, so he was in hog heaven! We didn't even have a chance to change him into his cozzie before he was waist deep in waves, so we just let him at it. I was quite impressed with his boldness; not once did he cry or run (except into the sea), and when a big wave took his feet out from under him, he just laughed and stood up for more. Needless to say, his battery was flattened by such a busy day and he slept like a log.

What Binds Us Together, What Tears Us Apart

"The moment the child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new."

No matter how many times you may read that, how many times you may meditate on the sentiment, until you are born as a mother you will and can never understand it. I don't say this out of arrogance or self-conceit, it is a simple truth. The birth of a child means the rebirth of a woman. She is taken apart and remoulded, in the blink of an eye. On the outside we look the same, but on the inside we are changed, left open and vulnerable, at the mercy of this tiny child we hold in our arms. Yes, motherhood, it is one of the great deciders. A decider of who we are, what we will become. It makes us or it breaks us. It is a glorious journey of self rediscovery, a journey we gladly embark on, filled with hope and possibility. We meet not only our child, but the new us. The us we call mother.

But despite the wonder of motherhood, for many, including myself, it can be a time of great loneliness. Where unshakable relationships once stood, now chasms gape. The distance between mother and non-mother widens, by no fault of anyone, but by the simple passing of time. Canyons eroded by priority and misunderstanding. Yes, motherhood, it is what binds us together, and what tears us apart.