Some memories of Alder's second month

Some memories from Alder's first month

Early morning notes

This'll all change the moment I write it down, I'm sure!

Right now, Alder wakes at about eight when two of his sisters get up for the day. He coos at them while I get up, and then falls back to sleep on one of them when we get downstairs. I get to have breakfast, wash some dishes, prep ahead for meals later in the day, hang out the nappies from the evening wash, and set up anything we need for the day ahead. It's amazing having all these hands wanting to love on the baby, and him being so happy with them.

I have never been this organised, with a newborn in the house or otherwise. I mean I've not done my tax return or anything, but...

In a year

This time last year I did not imagine I would see in this New Year breastfeeding a newborn again.

At times last year was unbearable. And yet we bore it. We couldn't take one more step and yet we did.

This year we already have some sparkle back. This, this is everything. Yes, he was a hundred times worth it. (And yes, never again!)

How the light gets in

It's Christmas day and I'm holding my newborn son, warm in his blue sunflower romper, and I'm thinking of Polly.

I've been thinking of her a lot over the last few months; one of the few people who really know the hell of hyperemesis and the crushing darkness it can bring to a time with so many expectations of joy and lightness. I have been lucky, so so lucky, that the moment Alder arrived I felt that rush of relief and the whole ten months faded instantly. The midwife who had been trying to coax me to drink sent Rowan running for a cup of water and I drained it in one and said, "it tastes like water!" The past two weeks have been all the lightness and joy I could have wished for, in spite of everything. I'm still crying allll the time but it's relief and happiness. I wish I could share this with Polly. She'd cry for me, too.

When I bought the sunflower sleepsuit months ago I thought of Pol. I knew I'd think of her every time I dressed my baby in it. Clung to that sunshine, light through darkness, she'll be remembered with sunshine, this long long grieving pregnancy will end with light.

I have food poisoning. I spent part of my Christmas afternoon being sick. And part of it talking to a suicidal stranger on a comments thread. I have no idea if she's still with us and I might never know. I told her although we're strangers, we're sisters, and I meant it fiercely. Holding my newborn son, remembering a dear friend for whom nobody could hold it all together no matter how much we loved her. We never really know for sure if the love we send is received, if it helps. We love anyway.

Love and loss and pain and fierce joy. The sounds of my children arguing, giggling, eating all the food. Morgan brought me a plate of crackers upstairs so I didn't attempt to sleep on an empty stomach. This was not the Christmas I planned, or the update I planned to write, and yet here it is. Imperfect. How the light gets in.

Thirteen

The ways in which you drive me frantic with worry and frustration are all the same things I deeply admire and respect in you. You've never not been a spark, little wildfire. And now you're almost adult sized and articulate enough to pass for older than your years. There's no taming you, only my attempts at ensuring you think through which consequences you can quite handle. There's no stopping you, only my reminders to look before you leap.

Honestly the next couple of years scare me a bit. If the proof is in the pudding, has my mothering been spent wisely?

You're brave and you know yourself. You're caring. You have boundaries and you know how to stand your ground. You're so filled with passion and wonder and life. I don't want the world to squish you.

Happy birthday, Bean. I hope I can be the person you need for these last precious years of your childhood.

Returning to myself

1: Post-sunny day evening treat, wildlings laughing and jostling, feeling very lucky.
2: Leicester visiting, my dad is recovering from surgery for cancer, we stopped by the pump house museum on our way over.
3: Tiny weavings, I'm building up to doing regular activity with the children who have been hanging around bored and worried a lot of the time I was really seriously ill. I have a lot of guilt about not being more present through this, but I'm trying to practice kindness to myself. Being so ill is hard and I'm lucky it's fairly temporary.
4: A long walk in heavy rain to the library.
5: Book festival wildlings.
6: And we met Mog, too. Rowan was terrified and squeezed my hand tight.
7: Flower bashing (hapa zome craft in the community gardens). I can't even express how lucky I feel to be vaguely back to doing things again.

In related news I'm now 17 weeks pregnant and starting to feel little goldfish wigglings. The middle kiddos came to my midwife appointment and heard the heartbeat last week, and now they are all competing over who can talk to (and kiss) the bump the most so it will be well socialised to being pounced on by siblings by the time it arrives!

Fourteen (?) days of this ordinary chaos, projects, and family

1: Living room bubble wrap stomping loveliness
2: Light table sorting and stacking
3: Glue plus little flower sprinkles
4: Lego marble maze
5: Rowan is always climbing things!
6: Mud pie kitchen and loose parts building in the garden (oh thank goodness for this sunshine!)
7: Anniversary Yo Sushi. Thirteen years.
8: Jenna reading everywhere, this week I've rarely seen her without her head in her book
9: Lemon cake (Talia told me very sweetly how much she LOVES baking with me so of course we had to immediately make a cake)
10: A hilltop climb with Ashleigh, a little adventure without the family again
11: Rowan conversing earnestly and politely with a bee! It made her week that it bumped her cheek as it flew away.

I've been horribly ill for most of the last couple of weeks, so we've been quite quiet. Fresh air and sunshine, sitting in the garden, and drinking lots of water, is all helping a bit.