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.

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.

Why I've Chosen To Raise My Son Away From The Church (or, Hit Me With Your Comments About How I'm Going To Hell)

I am not an atheist. Neither is my husband. Rod is Christian Lebanese, which is just another way of saying he was raised Catholic, while both of my mother's parents were Wesleyan missionaries, my Grammy still being an active member of her church. I was raised in a moderately Christian home, attending a wide variety of churches throughout my formative years, and schools that encouraged prayer and the singing of hymns at our weekly assembly.

Yet, from a young age I knew the route I wanted to take in terms of raising my children. And it was not to be a religious one. When it came time for Rod and I to discuss our ideas, I was overjoyed to find that his sentiments echoed my own. Church has never been for me. In fact, religion is not for me. I have tried, a number of times, but have never found solace in ritual or dogma. If anything, they set my teeth on edge. I am, I suppose, what one might label as spiritual. I have very strong beliefs, but they are not to be contained within four walls on consecrated ground. Rod, on the other hand, attended a Catholic school for his entire career and, as a result, has chosen to part ways with Mother Mary and her rosaries, but not with the concept of a God. It has been suggested that I was the catalyst for his departure but, if you'll allow me to address that theory, he hadn't considered himself a Catholic for a number of years before we even met.

Momma's Getting Her Groove Back

One of the hardest things about motherhood, possibly THE hardest, at least from where I'm sitting, is seeing yourself as a woman again after baby. Too many of us slip into the habit of being "just a mother", and forget that there are many mantles we must wear. Mommy, wife, lover, friend, companion, WOMAN. Too often we forget what we were before we had a baby asleep in its crib and a lounge floor covered in scattered toys and bread crumbs. I had an amazing pregnancy, I adored carrying my tiny bundle around inside of me. And I felt empowered by my little man's tiny and growing presence. I took strength from him when I felt weak, and shared all of my thoughts and dreams with him before he'd drawn his first breath. And I loved the way my pregnant body grew and changed. I enjoyed all the new curves - the fullness of my thighs, the weight of my breasts. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I had purpose. True purpose. A calling. I felt calm, at peace, and full. I was woman. But, after a few months of erratic sleep patterns, feeding bras and ponytails, not to mention a year of being little more than a milk dispenser to a very hungry child, it's not hard to see why the former womanly you may take a back seat.

Things That Really Piss Me Off (Now That I'm a Mom)

It's no secret that becoming a parent really shifts one's world view. Pick up any mom and baby magazine, chat to any new mom or dad, they all say the same thing - the world just looks different. When a child is born, so is a parent. It's as if a switch is flipped in your head, sharpening your vision, forcing you to confront those things that have only ever been peripheral to you. The days seem shorter, the failing education system scares the crap out of you, small dangers are vastly more terrifying. And things you took for granted, or never even really thought about, piss you off.

Over the past 15 months my own world view has been radically altered. The manner of my little man's arrival certainly jostled my brain into high gear but, if I'm honest with myself, the true eye opener happened a little over a month before I first saw his precious face.

It's Been Way Too Long...

It's been a little while since I last posted here. It's not that I forgot about this little blog of mine, or that I've been lazy or busy, or whatever other excuse modern mothers use. I've simply not known what to write about.

I could have told you about Ricky weaning himself two weeks early. I could have told you all about his first birthday. I could have told you about his first steps, the fact that he's not only walking but running, or the way he climbs everything he lays his eyes on. But I just never found myself sitting down with my laptop to say any of these things. So allow me to catch you up on the goings on in Mommy's life.

Weaning Baby

When Rod and I first found out that Ricky was on the way, I made the promise to myself and my unborn child that I would breastfeed for a year. I know the experts claim that a child should be breastfed for at least two years but, all due respect to them and my son, that just isn't going to happen. I miss pretty, lacy bras! I miss low-cut tops! I miss feeling that special sort of sexy that feeding bras just don't lend to an outfit, no matter how well put together. Right after Ricky was born I was given about a million and one clothing vouchers - which I spent in record time on some gorgeous stuff! - but I am yet to even wear some of it! Hell, don't get me wrong, Carriwell makes a damn comfortable feeding bra! But they don't really fit under that pretty, lacy cami. I despise seeing a new mother walking in the mall with her babe in her arms and her bra on display for all to admire. Shoulder straps are an inevitable part of life, but when I can see the back strap with the catches sticking out above the back of a shirt, or the top of a cup peeking out of a dress, I feel ill. Having a newborn is no reason to look slovenly! And so I patiently sit with a closet full of gorgeous new clothing waiting for the day I can again don La Senza!

The Things I Learned This Christmas

And a happy new year!

Boy, am I glad it's a new year!! Not that 2013 wasn't an awesome year for me (obviously), but as soon as the year begins to draw to a close, I become decidedly restless. I'm one of those people whose energy levels begin to dip towards the festive season, not because I hate Christmas - au contraire! - but because I know how much energy and obligation comes with the Christmas period. And a part of me suffers those emotions long before the first mince pies are out of the oven!

This year, because it was Ricky's first Christmas, we headed off to Rod's folks' place in Klerksdorp, my mom in the back seat and a boot full of presents, so that all the grandparents could have the privilege of spending this time with the first grandchild of this generation. I had made the (foolish) assumption that three days with grandparents, aunt and uncle would provide Rod and I a few moments to ourselves to relax, but I couldn't have been more off the mark. This Christmas marked the hardest I have worked as a parent thus far, including the sleepless nights in the early days. And taught me a couple valuable lessons.

Skinny Bitch

When a woman falls pregnant - and I feel particularly well-placed to make this statement, having been pregnant - it seems that all the naysayers she has ever known crawl out of the woodwork to pour acid on the special time, as if it somehow makes them better or wiser for having seen the world for what it really is. At least that was my experience. What it really made them was rude and uncultured shitheads. Instead of wishing me well, I was showered with comments such as "You know you're giving up sleep for the next five years, right?" and "You're going to lose your figure, I hope you like being fat!" I laughed off most of these brazen and bitter comments, I was ready for a change! I wanted it! If I wanted to sleep through the night or not have the responsibility of caring for another human being 24/7, I would never have had a child. I didn't make this decision blindly.