18 nights ago and unable to sleep, I found myself writing the following epistle to my unborn daughter…
My darling Trufflette,
It’s been almost nine months since we first met you – a tiny cluster of expanding cells huddling together in absolute blastocystic beauty. I knew in that first moment that it would be you, of all our embsicles, that would be the one to stay and complete our family -though I dared not say it out loud. I was smugly certain that, as I peed on the little white stick that would become my conduit to life as a mother of two, two little lines would appear.
But after so many disappointments, when my instinct was proved right and that lovely linear duo appeared, I was overcome and I sobbed and sobbed. (Scaring the shit out of your dad who didn’t realize my tears were those of joy but who, on further investigation of said pissy stick, quickly joined in the somewhat damp and salty celebrations.)
Of other things I wasn’t so certain. For example, after your first ultrasound I was convinced you were a boy and your brother convinced you were a shark . This was of great concern. Not that you might be a boy, I would have been cool with that. More that Casa Conception had somehow implanted the wrong embryo and some poor infertile shark somewhere was carrying a human baby. You must admit this would be a somewhat perturbing turn of events.
Nor did I know that you would have so many little surprises for us along the way.
Though I’m sure you were having a simply fab time swimming about in the pink room – beating mummy’s insides black and blue with your little ninja kicks, doing those special baby gymnastic moves that make mummy look like an extra on Alien, swinging on the umbilical cord like a fetal Tarzan (or Jane) and merrily drinking your own pee – you’ve certainly kept me on my very swollen toes.
It started when I was told that there was an extremely high risk of you having chromosonal abnormalities, information that was accompanied by demands that I undergo invasive tests that could risk tiny 12-week-old you coming into the world at all. Mama-bear mode kicked in almost on the spot. I knew they were wrong and I fought them kicking and screaming all the way. A month and some less intrusive, though still scary, tests later and I was right again, you were just fine.
And, to my great surprise, a little girl.
Thrilled as I was by this unexpected development, it did kinda fuck up our plans to name you Remy, which both your dad and I had thought was the perfect name for our new baby boy. (Though your nutty brother-to-be wanted the more formal “Blue Remy Rat”). Sadly, that was the last name we saw eye-to-eye on and here we are on the eve of your birth, and your dad and I still haven’t come to any agreement (though Devilboy is still putting a case forward for his preferred rodent prénom) so please forgive me if you’re lumbered with “Number 2” for a time.
I was also surprised at how much harder it was to carry you in my ageing and weary body than it was to carry your brother and the scares you’ve given me because of it. But I shouldn’t really have been shocked… I am getting a bit long in the tooth to be playing a game mother-nature designed for women half my age (Note to Mother Nature if you happen to be reading this: You. Are. A. Bitch)
Though this gestating a person malarkey has been a bit tough at times, I have really enjoyed having you along for the ride while you’ve been renting out the pink room. In fact, it’s been a privilege having you aboard. But I will admit that but I am very much looking forward to your disembarking the mother ship and meeting you face to face, so I can have my instincts, this time that you are utterly perfect, confirmed once more. And so, my love, that you can see for yourself just how much your dad, brother and I already love you… ”
I never had the chance to review, finish or post this nausea inducing pap as, when the clock struck midnight, so did writers block and I put it aside for another day.
And that was my undoing. It turned out that the blockage was actually somewhere around my cervix and it cleared with forceful impact at around 5am the following morning when my waters broke and I went into early labour, yet another curly surprise from that impatient little japester in my belly as she shouted “surprise!” and demanded entry into the world, right bloody now.
And so, just a few hours of unfuckingbelievable pain, a shed full of drugs, and an emergency caesarian later, a tiny 3kg of deliciousness arrived to validate my belief that my beautiful little girl was, and indeed is, utter perfection.
Perky little Ms. Marlo (her name became clear to us both the minute she was handed over for her first cuddle) and her uterine cohabiting shark (who are we to ruin Devilboys fantastical notions of a sharky sibling sibling?) are both doing well, as is the rest of this very blissful family.
So to my darling daughter… we’ll just have to fill in the blanks of my abandoned epistle as we get to know each other over the next lifetime. But know that it would have been signed off – with much love, Mummy. x