Ess. Ee. Vee. Ee. En.
Seven years and I’m still broken. Forever broken. And forever unaccepting. I got ripped off. We all did. Your children, your children’s children, your brothers, your sisters, your friends. The whole fucking world. And, sure, I might be a bit on the biased side, but I’m not wrong. You’d say I was, but you’d know inside that I am right.
I can still close my eyes and relive my first memory of you. Though it is now more like a stop motion film or something you’d see posted on Vine. Let’s not even go there. So not something you’d be interested in. Because, the Internet.. oh has it changed since you were last forwarding me spam in hopes that I would tell you that a Nigerian Prince really did want to share his family’s fortune with you. I can still see your shirt, you crossing a room, a dark room. It’s the first memory I have. Not the first time I saw you, but I remember asking momma about the details once and she told me I couldn’t have had the memory because I was a baby. But we also realised that there were no photos of this moment/day/whatever, so I guess you just left an impression on me.
I can still close my eyes and see the last time I saw you smile. You were outside of the bus we were leaving Scott’s wedding on. You were teasing Randy because you got to be outside with a cigarette and he was stuck on the non smoking bus. You were happy. You were relieved. Your last child was married and it went off without any troubles. All of the stress and all of the worry was gone. You were truly happy. It was wonderful.
I wish I didn’t have to close my eyes, or look at a photograph. I wish that this was the most elaborate hoax EVER. Sometimes I am convinced that it is. Because how could it not be? I am not a forgiver, but I would totally forgive you for this. Let’s be honest, I’d pretty much forgive you for anything.
There was moment when I was in Las Vegas a couple of weeks ago. I was walking through the Bellagio when I looked out of the window and there you were. I stopped, rubbed my eyes and looked again. You were still there. I took a couple more steps and looked out of the next window and it was still you. I rubbed my eyes again and shook my head. You didn’t go away. I watched you walk thinking that would make me realise it was not you. But you walked just like you. My friend asked what I was looking at and I said “There is a man that looks just like my Dad”. She said “You mean the one in the grey shorts? Yeah, I noticed that too. He looks just like him!”
I knew it my heart it could not be you. I held your hand tight. Too tight. Felt too much to know that was not you. But my chest still seized and my heart stopped and time stood completely still, and for a moment there I thought that maybe I had been wrong. I hoped that I had been so wrong.
It’s been seven years and time hasn’t healed shit.
So, I had the baby.
Yep. A 9lb 4.9oz baby boy. 2 weeks late and just 3 weeks shy of a year ago.
I guess you could say that things have been a bit crazy. There are countless times a week where I say that I am going to sit down and finally blog about it. And then I don’t. Not because I have no words. Oh I have PLENTY. And perhaps part of the non birth story is because there are too many words. And they aren’t ones that fill my heart with joy, even though he does.
Oh, his name is Dylan. Dylan Henry Joseph. After 42 weeks of pregnancy, we still hadn’t chosen a name for a boy. So on the day he was born, instead of feeling a sweet sense of relief and just bonding with this new tiny human, I had to stare at him and try to figure out what or who he looked like. I so wanted him to look like a Timothy, but he didn’t. I cried. Could have been the after pains, or they were just a convenient excuse. Then we were pretty sure he looked like a Henry. But it wasn’t sitting well with my mother and so we decided on Dylan. Naively. Because when it comes to names, we think like we are in England still and thought the name wasn’t all that popular, but not too out there. Apparently, in Canada, we were completely wrong.
11 months in, I am still not convinced that he’s a Dylan, even though everyone else seems to have taken to it. For this reason, I sometimes call him Miles. Amy supports this decision, which sort of helps, but Lee just rolls his eyes and sighs at us, so I guess there won’t be a name change wrapped up in a bow for his first birthday.
And before you all think that I am so mean to call him a name that isn’t one of the three I gave him, I often look at Noah and think “Yep, you should have been a George!”. The only name I know I got right was Amy’s. And that is because you’ve never met a girl who loves their name as much.
One day, I will finish a post on Dylan’s birth story. I will include all of the milestones that he has hit way too early and how crazy it has been having a ‘little’ baby compared to my previous two beasts. There will be talk of babies somersaulting out of vaginas and dusky face, as well as unnecessary antibiotics and extended hospital stay that I am still very bitter about.
For now, it will remain at almost 700 words in my Draft folder, collecting virtual dust while I still try to get to grips that there are 5 of us in this house. Three of whom call me Mama.
So I apologise in advance of you, Dylan, growing up and wondering why you didn’t get the same as your brother and sister. My intentions were good, my execution SUCKED. It is a running theme with me. Apologies for that too.
Now, I am going to cuddle up next to you and enjoy my living, breathing cuddly toy and sleep until you head butt me in the mouth to let me know that you are hungry. Or poke me in the mouth and laugh and laugh and laugh until I am ready to cry and your daddy has to step in before my last, very frayed, thread of sanity fully snaps and takes you for a walk to the front door. Or maybe, just maybe you’ll sleep through.
The phone rings.
“I have your mum on the line for you”
“What? My mom? Really?”
I wish I could forget the rest of that phone call.
I wish I had never answered the phone.
I wish you were still here.
And I’m still heartbroken.
I’m still angry.
I’m still grieving.
I fell. And I fell hard. And I’m still getting back up.
I watch tv or read the newspaper and can hear your voice, knowing exactly what you’d say.
I can picture you sat on the corner of the bed with your sandwich and pack of cookies, kissing your teeth and cussing politicians/athletes/etc.
I can picture you in one thousand different scenarios with each of your grandchildren.
And I can hear you snicker as you teach them something wholly inappropriate to say.
I wish for a lot of things, but what I wish most is that you got a chance. A chance to meet these five totally different but all so amazing little people that I know you would love completely and fiercely.
Some days are better than others.
But every single day I miss you.
And every single day I hope you knew how much you were and forever will be loved.
Apparently this baby is really comfortable. Like super duper extra cosy up in here. 11 days overdue. What’s up with that, little person? Everyone is wondering when you are coming out and I, I do really want to meet you and I’d also like to be able to get up to pee without worrying that I am going release the mother of all floods on the bedroom carpet.
You have until Tuesday. I do admire your determination to leave Aries and become a Taurus. It is the same thing I did almost exactly 36 years ago. Only times have changed and you are not allowed to take your sweet time. The midwife and the doctor have decided that the 24th is it. If you don’t decide to grace us with your presence before then, you are getting a forced eviction. I cannot tell you how this terrifies the life out of me. And apparently that is the only way you will come out and join this crazy family.
I promise, we’ll be kind. At least we will try our hardest. I will let you down from time to time. That might be month to month or minute to minute, but I promise to try. You have a bossy boots older sister who believes that she is going to be bathing you, changing your diaper and feeding you. She has also been practicing lifting you into the moses basket by using her plastic toy mushroom in your place. Your older brother is also kind of excited, though he is more aware of what comes with babies in his house. But he is the one who is going to be gentle with you and want you to do everything he is doing. For now.
So don’t be scared. Or at least not too scared.
Plus, I had a dream that you got stuck on the way out because your lips were too big, so we need to stop growing those. Okay?
Today is Friday. For another 8 whole minutes. After which, it will be Saturday. And? And this means that I will have another day of people asking where this baby is, when is this baby coming, have I forgotten to spread the news, when am I being induced…..
I like to think that I am a pretty affable pregnant person. At least to strangers. I don’t mind people touching my belly or giving me their thoughts on what I am having because of the way I waddle or whether my bump is neat or wide or my nose is 7 times larger than when I started this journey. I get it. People like babies that are not theirs. Trust me, I totally understand. Not that I am a foreign belly toucher, but I am alright with those that enjoy such weirdness.
What pushes my hormone filled, baby growing body over the edge (if you ask Lee, he’ll tell you the answer is everything) is when you hit the Due Date and the questions start flying at you. You can’t call anyone, you can’t alter your online habits, you can’t not notice a BBM for fear of setting off a mini panic. People want to know WHEN and they want answers NOW.
Trust me; it would be pretty convenient for us to have answers too. But we don’t. When we do, it will be all over Twitter and Facebook, your phones and email. I’ll even throw the news up on G+ for the 3 1/2 of you that ever use it. And until then, I am over answering the questions.
I need to use that energy to pay attention to the two toddlers that don’t understand just how exhausted I am and still want Mommy to be playing trains on the basement floor or pretending to be a baby forcing a smile as a not quite 3 year old slams a hard plastic bottle full of what looks like Glucose Test Orange Drink into your teeth repeatedly. Even if these are the same tiny humans who fall over themselves laughing when I try and lift myself off of the deck after a bubble blowing session.
It is Crazy Time around here right now and it is only going to get crazier. This baby cannot stay inside forever, so there is no need to panic or worry. S/he will be out soon. And let’s be honest, they aren’t going to be cute for at least a few days, so if i did somehow forget to update the world, by the time I remembered the baby can only be that much better looking.
(And no, this post has no photos like I had promised. And yes, I know I missed Noah’s birthday update. and of course I have way more to write about and haven’t. I will – to all of it. Maybe tomorrow)
…don’t waste another minute on your cryin’…
Sorry, part of my baby brain leads to random moments where I feel like my body is just a vessel for hosting Alan Thicke’s spirit.
That and what a difference a day makes!!
After the Confessions of a Panic Stricken Pregnant Lady yesterday, we grabbed my home birth list (that’s right… home birth.. we’ll get into it later) and went to go get as much crossed off as possible. When we came home, the list was nearly complete, with bonus Gift From The Baby for Amy and even a mystery bag of cinnamon hearts to enjoy.
Well, as much as you can enjoy something when you are super dizzy and feeling faint. But my Super Duper husband ran me a bath and we decided on a paint colour for the bathroom (because if I am going to labour in there, I really need to like the colour I am looking at).
And then I got out of the tub and changed my mind about the colour.
But I didn’t stress. Because the baby has 3 onesies now and some receiving blankets and I feel like I am totally ready. Other than the whole getting up for feedings during the night, because right now when Amy wakes up 32084 time AT 2.5!!! it is all I can do not to run in her room, cover the walls with egg cartons and hope to soundproof that shit out of that thing so we can all GET SOME SLEEP! Only the eggs we buy come in plastic containers (woo hoo environment – we do recycle them), so I know I can’t do it. Plus. There is NOTHING that can silence the beast within Ames when she decides that she doesn’t want anyone to sleep if she can’t.
Other than Noah’s brain. That boy sleeps through it. Every night. And bounces out of bed in the morning saying “I had a BIG sleep!”, so impressed with himself and completely oblivious to the salt he is grinding into our wounds.
But HEY! I’ve Got Plastic Tablecloths! to sleep on whilst we await this bundle of awesome that is sure to pull the rug out from under us, just as we start to feel steady on our feet. But I’m doing what I can to stay one step ahead… until he or she arrives. At least I keep telling myself that. We’ll see how it really goes come April.
Please let this baby wait until April.
Guess who got distracted again?
Seriously. How do real bloggers do it? How does anyone who has two under 4s do anything. Just when I think I am getting the hang of it, something comes up and I am 10 steps back. It’s not like I haven’t had things to write about. I mean we’ve had Christmas, temper tantrums, failed toilet training, visits to Sick Kids, sick kids, sick parents, and even had the 3D preview of our upcoming arrival.
But my head. My head has been a mess. Go to bed each night with a firm TO DO List and then wake up the next morning wondering if anyone would notice me hiding behind the glider in the bedroom avoiding the list of things that need to be done. When Noah was en route, we were pretty much on schedule with everything. The nursery was slowly coming together, the essentials were purchased, the hospital bags traveled in the car wherever we went. Amy came along for the ride and we were about 4 steps behind but knew that we had most of what we needed already so there was no panic.
This time I am totally in a panic. Inside. Outside I just kind of look like something in between a patient from Girl Interrupted and a hobo. So, mostly normal.
It’s February and I am way behind on Christmas thank you cards. Noah’s birthday is in 24 days and I meant to pick him up all of these things he wanted in the post Christmas sales. Oh and he wants a dragon cake. Because for some reason he believes that I am capable of making one. I can slap a pattern on some fondant to make a theme, but shaping a cake into something more than a number? You’re fooling yourself, child.
Oh, and we’re 10 weeks out from being a family of 5 and we don’t have an infant car seat, never mind a car that can hold all of us. Which is kind of okay, because let’s be honest … as if I will mentally be prepared to venture out in public before 2013.
They are all things that will come together, but in my head there are just toooooo many. And when I write down everything that needs to be done, I want to kick Michelle Duggar in the vagina for making it seem soooooooo easy with 19 kids. I didn’t find it easy with one, until I had two.
So that’s where we are. Or at least where I am. Lee is actually at work. Where he is most days. Unless he needs to work from home because Amy’s eye is deciding to play tricks on us and has us driving through rush hour traffic at silly o’clock to Sick Kids and making me dislike the general public even more, since you and both know that if people would just learn to merge properly, traffic would flow much better! MUCH! Why am I not the Minister of LEARN HOW TO DRIVE YOU FREAKING IDIOTS!!!!!!! ?
Amy is trying to have a nap at 3.30pm. This does NOT work. I repeat DOES NOT. But she’s been so sick lately that her schedule is totally out of whack. Schedule. HAHAHAH I put Amy and schedule into the same sentence. That is hysterical. If there is anything that she isn’t, it is scheduled. And boy doesn’t she let us know it. Because we all want to play at 4am or deal with her melt downs at 5 minutes past WAIT I FORGOT I’M TIRED o’clock. I can’t wait until she is waking the baby up constantly by yelling NEBER! NUFFING! NEBER! NO!. Those will be fun times.
Then there is Noah. Who is playing in the basement, because down there he can poo and I can’t catch him and try and put him on the toilet. What is the deal?! I know it’s part lazy on our side but it’s a big part CRAZY on his side. He wants to go to a school where he can wear a diaper. Because let’s be real. Who has time to sit on a toilet? Especially when Zoboomafoo is on. Or when the pirate ship is saving the dinosaurs from extinction.
As for this baby, who isn’t officially called Hamster but that seems to be what most people know him/her as, well s/he has been letting me know that they are getting ready. Head down, head butting my bones, wriggling and kicking to let me know that time is a coming. We saw him/her on the 3D scan and they totally performed. We even saw baby nipples. And the way s/he cuddled the umbilical cord was too sweet. If not frightening. So now when there is an hour free of movement I’m all WAKE UP, DON’T BE USING THAT THING AS A SCARF!
Right, NOW that’s where we are.
And to make up for the mish mash of moaning above, I will make sure the next post is photo heavy. You know you can’t wait. Or at least pretend you can’t. My fragile emotional state can’t really handle the rejection at the moment.
Why is it that when you are watching the Food Network and get inspired to make something you’ve just seen on Diners. Drive-Ins and Dives that your brain forgets to remind you that in TV Land, everything is prepped and ready ahead of time. So when the Jamaican lady says she just throws boiling water on her saltfish for two hours and then cooks it up, you think .oO(totally soooooooo much easier than changing the water 342 times throughout the day. Let’s do this!)
Only you put your fish aside to desalt and forget that in that two hours you should perhaps be mincing garlic, slicing onions and peppers and chopping tomatoes. Or maybe you could be getting everything for your rice and peas together instead of watching Ellen Barkin on Anderson and thinking how much fun she’d be on a night out while you add her to your list of imaginary friends.
And then, when you start the prep and get the rice on its way, you check on the fish and RASS that fish is still salty as shit! So you start some vigorous water changes and shake the hell out of it to try and rinse as much of that salt out because, sure your children have been little ratbags all day, but do you really want to take it out on them by sucking all of the moisture out of their mouths? Of course not. Because then you will have to spend the rest of the night making them feel better and you’re already in a panic because it’s XFactor night PLUS the finale of Dancing with the Stars.
Your only option is to do what you can to get that saltfish sorted out and ready for dinner and in the meantime you make a note to tell that Jamaican lady that she is too full of chat when you one day wind up in her restaurant on some road trip because damn her coconut drops looked sooooo tasty.
And then, because you are a superstar you wind up with a meal that reminds you that if your husband ever gets too sick of your constant lazy and crazy, you’d happily marry yourself because YUM.
This often works in his favour.
It is extremely hard to have those super huge brown eyes look into your yours and deny what they are asking for.
Except when you are sat in the middle of the basement that looks like it has been raining Toys R Us for 40 days and 40 nights and the owner of those eyes turns to you and says:
I need more toys, Mommy.
It feels like 10 minutes ago that we were packing up the house in England and preparing for a whole new life in Canada. Only at that time we didn’t realise that a whole new life included a whole new life.
Then we went for that first ultrasound where we lost a month in our lives in the matter of 20 minutes. Not in the way we lost something in that ultrasound back in June, but in a good way. Or at least once we digested it, it was a good way. When we – or at least I – realised that an arrival at the beginning of April was better than one in May because it meant that we were one month closer to me getting past that 6 month barrier where I go from totally freaking insane to borderline insane with a splash of normal. And let’s be honest, my household cannot handle my complete crazy for too long.
So it sank in that we were having an April Fool and when it’s in a different year, it feels a safe distance away. Like you have all the time in the world to prepare for the upheaval that a baby brings. And you pretend it is not November because that means it is almost December which means it is almost next year. But guess what? Not only is it November, it is the second half of November and just like that we go from no baby on the way to half baked.
That’s right. We’re on the 50 yard line! It’s no longer a count up, but countdown. 20 weeks down and 20 weeks to go. That’s it. Except my mother believes that this is a boy and that he will follow in Noah’s footsteps of being late. I agree with her on the boy, but I would like to hope she is wrong on the late bit. I’ll allow a few days either side of the date, but I’m not down with over a week. Not when I make babies the size of large watermelons.
And although they say this baby isn’t huge, which they said about Amy *ahem*, the feet speak otherwise.
So yeah, let’s keep growing bigger and stronger. But concentrate more on the stronger, okay? I’m still trying to master sneezing without peeing my pants over here.
You go ahead and think that over. If you agree to my terms, I promise not to name you “Roswell”.