Three days before Milo was born, I heard Ash play this song at a concert in the Ulster Hall. I had never heard it before, but I immediately fell in love with the lyrics. The day Milo was born I could hear it playing over and over again. It felt like a love song to him. So here is my first dedication to my son - and a glimpse into just how enamored I am during this 'babymoon.'
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Adding 'Mother' to my List of Titles
My absence can be explained in a word; or rather in a name - Milo.
On the 12th of March my life changed forever when my son Milo finally made his debut. In a dimly lit room, sitting in a warm birthing pool and holding my husband's hand, I experienced the most brutal/bittersweet pain and the most intense relief of my life. Milo was born into the water and placed into my waiting arms in a whirlwind, and within moments he had opened his dark eyes and looked at me with an odd recognition. I wept, of course - with exhaustion, and relief, and love, and a million other raw emotions. It is a moment I would re-live over and over again for the rest of my life if given the chance. My body is covered in goosebumps at the mere memory of it. Never a fan of greeting card sentiments, I am suddenly lost for non-cliched phrases or words to describe what the last five weeks have been like. I can't stop looking at him, holding him, talking about him or thinking about him. I have daydreams about his life, about what he will be like and what things he will do. I watch him sleep and wait eagerly for him to wait sometimes - other times I pray he will sleep a bit longer so I (and my poor breasts) can have a few moments alone.
Suddenly life feels very short - days seem to blend into each other and I wonder where each moment has gone. Already I feel the ache of a mother watching her child grow before her eyes and begging the time to slow down long enough for me to enjoy it. I am breaking all of my own rules already. My determination to use cloth diapers and cotton wool and water died before week three as I struggled to change my son without a screaming fit and a room covered in poo. My fear of allowing a newborn to share my bed was lost after several nights of only 20 minutes of uninterrupted sleep. My disgust for the use of pacifiers went out the window when I realised that my child can sometimes only be comforted by suckling at my breast - which is already weary from overuse by such an eager eater.
I find myself checking to see if he is breathing, taking his temperature without much cause, and watching intently to see if I can notice any odd or disturbing movements or color changes. Suddenly I am aware of what it feels like to have something in your life that you CAN'T be without, CAN'T survive the loss of. The fear can be overwhelming if explored too fully, and so instead I try to push it as far out of my mind as possible.
Although I have brief moments of feeling bad or embarrassed about being so engrossed in motherhood and so unable to think about much else - I have decided to embrace this short time I have where my baby and I are still almost one person. I will grapple back the other aspects of my persona in time, I will develop new aspects as well. For now I am reveling in this new part of me. This new title - mother.
On the 12th of March my life changed forever when my son Milo finally made his debut. In a dimly lit room, sitting in a warm birthing pool and holding my husband's hand, I experienced the most brutal/bittersweet pain and the most intense relief of my life. Milo was born into the water and placed into my waiting arms in a whirlwind, and within moments he had opened his dark eyes and looked at me with an odd recognition. I wept, of course - with exhaustion, and relief, and love, and a million other raw emotions. It is a moment I would re-live over and over again for the rest of my life if given the chance. My body is covered in goosebumps at the mere memory of it. Never a fan of greeting card sentiments, I am suddenly lost for non-cliched phrases or words to describe what the last five weeks have been like. I can't stop looking at him, holding him, talking about him or thinking about him. I have daydreams about his life, about what he will be like and what things he will do. I watch him sleep and wait eagerly for him to wait sometimes - other times I pray he will sleep a bit longer so I (and my poor breasts) can have a few moments alone.
Suddenly life feels very short - days seem to blend into each other and I wonder where each moment has gone. Already I feel the ache of a mother watching her child grow before her eyes and begging the time to slow down long enough for me to enjoy it. I am breaking all of my own rules already. My determination to use cloth diapers and cotton wool and water died before week three as I struggled to change my son without a screaming fit and a room covered in poo. My fear of allowing a newborn to share my bed was lost after several nights of only 20 minutes of uninterrupted sleep. My disgust for the use of pacifiers went out the window when I realised that my child can sometimes only be comforted by suckling at my breast - which is already weary from overuse by such an eager eater.
I find myself checking to see if he is breathing, taking his temperature without much cause, and watching intently to see if I can notice any odd or disturbing movements or color changes. Suddenly I am aware of what it feels like to have something in your life that you CAN'T be without, CAN'T survive the loss of. The fear can be overwhelming if explored too fully, and so instead I try to push it as far out of my mind as possible.
Although I have brief moments of feeling bad or embarrassed about being so engrossed in motherhood and so unable to think about much else - I have decided to embrace this short time I have where my baby and I are still almost one person. I will grapple back the other aspects of my persona in time, I will develop new aspects as well. For now I am reveling in this new part of me. This new title - mother.
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