The SS Birth of Everything

By Juli Thomys

Book 3 of The MotherShip ... The Annals of Mothering Wisdom

Becoming a mother has changed everything. It made me realise that it sets you apart from anything you have been and done before. There was the whole non-parental experience of life, and then there is Motherhood. It is the good and the bad and the ugly; we become incredible maternal Goddesses, and frumpy jog-bottomed Cinderellas at the same time. We are flying the highest we could have imagined, and we are hanging on the cliff with our bare gums from sheer exhaustion, too. 

The birth of a child is also the birth of a mother. We are doing this for the first time. We have no clue of what is happening, and what is coming next. How to raise a child and the impossible task of having everyone’s needs met. We are only a girl, doing this for the first time. Read that again, a mother is only a girl doing this for the very first time too. There is forgiveness in this realisation, forgiving ourselves for not being able to meet everyone’s needs. Our kiddo’s, our own, the dad’s needs, and everyone else’s who we hold dear and close to our hearts. 

When we become mothers, we forget to put the oxygen mask on ourselves first. We let the cup run empty, the battery runs dry, and we are willing to pay the price later. For now, we are minding everyone else. Usually, we pick up the pieces when the kiddos have their wings firmly in place, after we have spent so many years giving them roots in the first place. This might be the ways of the world, and we can only learn from each experience, and from one another. 

With my firstborn, I still did everything, the house, and the dinners alongside learning to be a mum. With the second kiddo, something had to give, but I was deeply upset when I had not showered or there was no dinner on the table, and my only achievement was holding an unsettled baby for many hours of the day. With my third-born, I let go. Let go of all those expectations, clean windows, a perfect diet for everyone all the time. I stopped apologising for the untidy house, but I learned to enjoy the moment, and the connection to the little munchkin in my arms and my two toddling souls around the place. 

Becoming a mother has taught me about unconditional love. I had never experienced it before, and the vastness of it took my breath away. That there could be another human being who could drive you to almost wanting to give it all up in one minute, and who you would lie down and die for if it came to it. I remember watching a movie where a young mother offered herself up to get raped so that her daughters would be spared, and I understood this on a soul level. I would have done the very same too, there was no doubt. When we recently watched the life and demise of a serial killer, my youngest asked me if I would still love him in that case. As hard as it is to imagine, I know deep down, I would still love the person he has been, and whatever has been broken in his soul or brain. 

Loving my kiddos unconditionally has opened the door to loving Anam Cara unconditionally also, with all his colours, with all his scars. What a revelation that this is possible, and I must thank my kids for this. 

This chapter is the story about their births, as I told you plenty in the previous chapter about raising them. Giving birth three times has changed me, and not just in a physical way, but in an energetic way too. You can never take back the experience, but thanks to the universe we all forget the severity of it after a few hours, days or weeks.

My first-born, the best girl in the world

Her dad was my best friend at the time, and I assumed we were rock solid. We had moved country, we were on our own, we did everything together. We had to learn the language, we had no car yet, we hitchhiked to the monthly ultrasounds and made a day and lunch of it each time. We lived in the middle of nowhere, planted vegetables, had a goat for cheese and company, and did up this damp old cottage with our hearts full of gold. 

Getting pregnant was no trouble, we had not planned it, but we had gotten a little careless, so maybe the time felt right on a subconscious level. I did not know for some weeks, but apparently, I was walking a little different and holding myself up in a changed manner too, always a hand on my belly. Other people noticed, but I had no clue. I started heating up orange juice, and eating particularly salty foods, and it is still hard to believe I did not add up two and two. Only when I started dreaming of long tables full of meat, I became suspicious and went for a test with my local doctor. She confirmed what others had noticed before me, and on the way home I bought two huge steaks, after having been vegetarian for eight or so years. 

The pregnancy was a piece of cake, I was blooming, I was neat, I loved the baby kicking, and people opening doors for me. I was unafraid, I was young, I had my own plan. I thought I wanted a home birth, and just push out the baby in peace. This proved much harder and at the end impossible to achieve, the Irish west was not equipped, and the one home-birth-midwife was only available in a different county. Plan B was a birth plan, no epidural, no intervention, if possible, a bath, maybe a bit of that gas if the pain got too much. My threshold for pain had always been high, I trusted my body, I had no fear. All this before the internet, so maybe this one book from the library for reference, that was all we had. I hand-drew the birth announcement, a little dinosaur cracking out of an egg, all was ready, and we only had to fill in the name and birthweight and send the letters off to Germany. Every scan was ok, and I was not bothered when they told me the bump is small. The baby was not small, that was all that mattered, and I was on top of the world. I had conversations with that munchkin long before I laid eyes on her, and I knew her without knowing if it was a boy or a girl. One of the last surprises in this world, we did not want to know beforehand. When she was three days overdue, the hospital proposed for me to come in for observation and possible intervention, but I knew that there was no need. Deep down I was so connected to my intuition and inner wisdom; I just didn’t know what it was at the time. 

And then the labour started. Boy was I in for a surprise. It got closer and I had read all about the signs, so I knew it was time to make our way to the hospital. We had bought a little Nissan, so the hitchhiking days were over, we had our own wheels in a new country, and we were putting down roots. On the way to the hospital, I realized that the camera had no film roll inside, the days before digital, it is hard to believe how fast everything paper became obsolete. We stopped at a friend’s house for a spare film, a hug, and words of encouragement. Their daughter was born and toddling, and they had all the experience in our eyes. 

Coming to the hospital in quite some discomfort, I presented my birth plan. Imagine a foreigner, with not so amazing English, having a stubborn birth plan in the remote Irish West. The first doctor and midwife looked me up and down like a foreign thing, and my heart got a bit heavier. I had little English vocabulary for any of the medical terms, and if things got spontaneously out of hand, I did not have a plan beyond my birth plan. When the shift changed, a new midwife introduced herself as Maureen. Her name tag read Campbell. The only Maureen Campbell I knew was the exact midwife for home births, but unavailable in our county. The universe gifted her to us, she had a locum shift in the hospital, just one in six weeks or the likes, and she was on and assigned to me for giving birth to my first child! The gratitude I felt, like a warm shower after climbing a mountain. A lady who had seen both sides of the coin. There was nothing she could do for the clinical look of the place, the bright lights, the bare walls, the sickly hospital tiles. But she was warm, and reassuring, and she did not bat an eyelid over my written birth plan. I had asked to dim the lights, play the music of choice, and have a bath. A bath, what was I thinking! There was no bath to be had, but she let me pace the floor, dim the light, and let my body take over. She let us be, and only came to check that all was still going according to a healthy plan. 

I cannot say it was easy. I cannot say I would do it again in the morning. When labour was non-stop and intense and I was still not allowed to push, I wanted to give up and just sleep. The relentless mechanism that takes over, the scary part of not being able to go back and make it stop. There is only one way through, and this baby must come out, no matter what. In a way this is a complete loss of control and surrendering to trust that all will be well. I had visions of dying in the process, the actual pains took my breath away, and it was too late for epidural and intervention. I sucked in the gas like it was the only oxygen on earth, and I wonder how heightened everything would have been without it. Unbearable, and yet what women did for centuries. When it came to the final push, I suddenly knew what the ring of fire meant. A breaking of the body how it once was. A process so animalistic, that there are no words. A happening to the nether region completely out of your control. When there was an urge to push, it was not time yet according to the midwife, and when I was finally allowed to push, it felt against gravity and all the rules of the world. The ring of fire was like a death, and then it was over. Apparently, we ladies can pee and poop a bit with the pressure of it all, and I had worried about that beforehand. But giving birth there and then, this was the least of my concerns after all. Suddenly everything was done, and there was a little girl, and the lights were dimmed for her. The cord has not been cut for a while as I had it laid out in my plan. Dad was there, peace and quiet was there. And there she was, at 10pm, eyes as big as chestnuts, staring up at me in pure peace. I knew this girl already, and the knowing was in her eyes too. The mop of black hair was a bonus, she was as cute as they come, biased or not, she was the prettiest baby I had ever seen. 

Later the hustle bustle began, the weighing and measuring, the lights, the latching on. In a room of 4 or 5 young mammies I was the only one trying to feed her myself, everyone else was on a bottle, and we were the hippies before we even exchanged names. I did not sleep all night, but watched this tiny non-crumpled creature beside me, a miracle, and yet something so intimate I knew all my life. 

There was a bit of latching-on struggle, nothing that no other young mum trying to breastfeed has encountered too. But when it is the first time, and your own life, every small step seems like the leap for mankind. The learning to be a new mum is tremendous in these early days. 

Looking back now, I know that it was not ideal without my own mum in the country, or my family around. It takes a village really; it does take a village. 

26 years have passed since that night, my baby girl has turned into a fine young woman. 26 years of challenge, and a bit of heartache here and there, and an amazing and unconditional love. Her own adult challenges are her very own now, and I cannot kiss it better or lie down and die for her anymore. But she knows she can ring and always call on me, and when the crap hits the fan, she still does. I do not mind at all, our time together has been so precious, and even though some tired weeks seemed endless, the time really was the shortest journey together. 

When we developed the film roll of our first born, we showed them to everyone. The friends that gave us the film on the day laughed with us about how mad the experience of giving birth really is. I asked why she did not tell me how painful it really was. She looked at me and said, there was no way of telling, and I could not have imagined it anyway, that I would not have believed it, and what good would it have done? She was right of course; nothing can prepare you for the birth of your first child. 

My boy who got stuck

Five years later, my baby girl was climbing up trees and chasing down fields with the same passion she had for drawing and painting. She had her own head and could put on her clothes and tie her shoes, and she wanted to be a teacher. Her dad and myself had not made it through together, and I didn’t like for her to grow up without siblings. I was an only child and didn’t like it very much. I went on to do the foster parent training, and I was prepared to take on foster kids and make our little family bigger and more colourful. By then we lived in a small but bright and warm new place, and I loved my life despite my heartbreak, despite missing my family and living in another country. I had made peace with being single again and I had kissed a man or two, but nothing to take further and upheaval our lives. The man to change our trajectory came out of the blue, chatted me up at the till in the supermarket, whilst my little girl threw a wobbly tantrum at the sweets counter. Maybe my guard was down, maybe I was tired and a bit embarrassed at the public toddler display, lying on the supermarket floor and crying for not getting those sweets. Either way, I let himself carry the shopping to my car, and he somehow got out of me where we roughly lived. At that stage I had not mastered the art of Irish small talk, I still gave away too much. Kudos to him, he turned up a week later, and before I could wonder if this was charming or creepy, he helped me finish painting my stairs in the hallway, and we went for dinner that night. I am not sure what made the difference, the manly help around the place, his concept to stick out a rough marriage, the idea of a family again. Maybe the combination of all three, and possibly maybe I had not gotten over the breakup with her dad in the first place. I was still young, and my experience was still only half of a picture, and the Shopping-Carrier was quite adamant and persistent in his courtship. And somehow, I let it happen without understanding it fully. There was talk of buying a place and putting all eggs in one basket, I was equally afraid and delighted at the thought of making it all a ‘proper home’ again. He was great company to my girl, and suddenly there was new and unexpected life growing inside of me again. We barely tried, and it happened fast. 

I never had regrets about any of it. The relationship may have been doomed from early on, and our outlook on life was mismatched after all, but how could I ever regret anything that created another life, my own flesh and blood? 

Everything moved very fast alongside this pregnancy, suddenly there was a cottage found, the only place we could afford really, the timing was not ideal, the market was a seller’s one, but it was either that or renting. The cottage was not my first love, but the sellers had it down to a T. There was the coffee and fresh bread wafting through the place, cleverly placed mirrors and white walls so you could not spot the absence of light immediately. We bought the place, and called it our home, happy with a growing bump, content with little. At first just a mattress on the floor while a fire was roaring beside us in the stove.  My girl was excited that there will be another baby in the family, all seemed amazingly simple for a little while, and we made our own laughter echo through the thick cottage walls in those months. 

And then the day of the birth. Second round, I was not looking forward to this, but I was also determined and with little fear. Five years had passed, and the memory had faded, oh yes that burning ring, oh yes, the exhaustion, but so what? I had five years more life experience, my English had come on in leaps and bounds, I knew I could communicate what I needed when it came to it. I had accepted that some things were still not possible in the West of Ireland, and that a hospital birth was the most likely choice, but I would be bending the experience to my wishes as much as possible again. When contractions started, I kept it cool enough, I knew what to expect this time, I could do it again. We had a friend to mind the best girl in the world. We were free to experience my second and his first-born child. When labour pains were regular, we made our way up to Sligo hospital, we were still an hour away by car, so a little caution seemed appropriate. Reaching the town, contractions had slowed down again, what a bummer. There were no mobile phones to quickly check in with home, and there was no fancy cocktail bar or lounge in town to hang out in. The only thing I could think of was the cinema to pass a little time and see if contractions would restart. We went to the 10pm show and were the only ones in the whole cinema. I remember Sandra Bullock filling the screen and she took my mind off things for an hour. Contractions came back with a bang, and I never knew what happened to Sandra Bullock after that. I found myself on all fours in a dark cinema in the middle of the night, Sandra doing her thing, the dad rubbing my lower back and not knowing if to stay or to leave. If I thought I knew it all from the first round, and I was mistaken. This pain was suddenly second to none and ripped my underbelly apart with every contraction. I crawled across the cinema floor, and we never watched the end of the movie. I must check it out on one of those long winter nights now that I am thinking about it. I cannot remember how we got to the hospital, the 2000 steps from the cinema up the hill, my memory has been wiped completely. I don’t remember paperwork, or changing clothes, or any midwives, just this pain. For the level of pain, I assumed we were close, and the mountain had nearly been climbed. I was mistaken again. It took hours and hours and intense contractions, and nothing moved. At some point the baby was identified as breech, just stuck the wrong way, and at this stage not likely to turn by itself. I had midwives’ hands inside me trying to turn the baby manually and coax him around, but nothing worked. I felt like a cow or a mare, not human anymore, all the tugging, measuring, getting the business done. We came close to danger, and an emergency section was going to happen within the next few minutes. I saw my life flashing by, my belly being cut, my baby in distress, and I did not like any of this to happen to either of us. I cannot remember if I prayed, or gave out to the universe, but I seem to have a knack to will things into the highest vibration when I put my mind to it. I asked the universe to give us a natural birth and a healthy baby, I was probably half delirious from exhaustion and dehydration. One earth angel midwife gave it one last try, and she reached for the baby and commanded him to turn his head down and flip his little butt up. It was like being trampled by wildebeests on the run, but suddenly all alarm bells went off, and the natural birth was back on. There was pushing, and waiting, and contracting, and pushing again. I had reached the limit and could not even hold a straw or suck on an ice cube, but again, there is no stopping any of it. I remember wanting to physically die this time, just for the pain to stop, and to get a rest. And I kept anchoring back to my breath, and the centuries of women doing this work, and at some point, this baby boy decided to come into this world, and make it easier for me. No big fiery sensation, just the easing out after what felt like the battle of a century. Probably one of the two roughest nights of my life, and this one put the fear of childbirth into me for sure. Never again I swore, as I nursed this angelic baby to sleep. The streetlights and all that adrenaline kept me awake through my exhaustion, watching that little miracle breathe as if nothing happened. I had to pinch myself for the luck of it all, no surgery, just a measly tear and a couple small stitches, no war wound, just the memory of what felt like a war. 

We gave birth through the whole night, and this little boy never slept a night until he was 4 years of age. It was almost as if his own body held the stress of that night, and his own body clock went out of whack too. He slept twenty minutes here and there, and then he was up and in a lot of discomfort that we could not pinpoint down. Knowing what I know now, I would have brought him to an osteopath, to a kinesiologist, there is so much amazing help out there now. I did not know any of it then. All we knew was to ask the GP, first it was blamed on the colic’s, then the teething, and then there were no answers anymore. The solution was Gripe water or Calpol, none of it made a difference. This boy needed holding a lot, and no tricks like driving the car, pushing the buggy, rocking the cot made any difference. Just tight holding for comfort and safety. If I would have known what I know now, I would have held him and would have pushed the money around for a cleaner or some help. I did not know better then and tried to do it all, to put him down whilst cooking a dinner or cleaning the house, pick him up for the crying, and at the end of the day have nothing done right anyway. No dinner, no cleaning, and still a crying boy. Those were the most exhausting four years, I lost a lot of weight, and when I saw a photograph of me from that time, I burst into tears. I looked like coming straight from a work camp, legs thin and the face hollow. That time took a toll on all levels, and all I wanted was for this baby to sleep and rest. At some point he relaxed, started sleeping a few hours here and there, started smiling more and making home in this world. He always looked like an angel with delicate features and porcelain skin, but my sense of overwhelm and failure was uncomfortably present for as long as he did not settle into his own body and into the world. The exhaustion through it all was immense, and looking back, my nervous system was on fire and frozen at the same time. To muster the energy getting everyone dressed and changed and loaded into the car just to meet a friend for a coffee in town, seemed too much at times. All I needed was to sleep, or maybe I needed my own mammy, or a village which we did not have. If I could do it again, I’d look for the village, all the support possible, and I would hold that baby for all the hours he needed me. He turns out to be a fine young man who picked up some amazing life- and communication skills. He seems to feel safe and secure in his place and body, so whatever this first difficulty was, he may have overcome it. There may be a moment where his own perception of the experience will come to a head, and maybe this will need some work in the future and possibly forgiveness for our short-comings, and I can only hope that he will feel kindness in his heart then. 

Our Emily, angel in the sky

The numbers for miscarriages are higher than you think, one in three apparently, but you never think it will happen to yourself. I was exhausted from sleepless nights, but I was also happy and prepping for our wedding day and celebrations with our small families and best friends. Nothing big, not the whole princess dress thing, just a cool day, a promise that was supposed to be for life, some good food and being connected to our hearts. I had found an awesome dress by complete fluke in a local more mother-of-the-bride shop, but this little number was a radiant stunner. My neighbour was supplying the flowers from her garden, and we didn’t bother about name tags on the table or rehearsals and any of the fluff that comes with the business. Our sister-in-law baked the cake, and I got Shrek and Fiona figures in the spur of a moment to put on top. You get the idea, low key, a bit of humour, not getting lost in the big machine of spending thousands. The dress needed a small alteration to fit my new-mother weight loss. And then suddenly the news, that I am growing another life again. The set wedding date would bring that new life to 12 weeks, and what better opportunity than to tell the family at the dinner table as husband and wife. The plan was set, but I told my mum to have one ally in growing another cherished bump. The circumstances would be great for the wedding dress also, to have some ‘boobage’ to fill the front, as I am usually on the smaller cup side. The boobs didn’t really show this time, but I thought nothing of it, being busy, being a young mum, living. The waist had to be taken out again, and I wonder what the dressmaker thought of it all, my little baby secret at the time. The evening before the wedding my family came from across the pond. The small cottage started filling with people. Being an only child, I like it that way, I love the company, I love a bit of hustle-bustle. But suddenly I felt a constant low-level bleed. I could not process it at that moment, I was in denial, lay down with my legs up, thinking gravity could stop the course of events. I don’t remember much of that hour. At some point I knew we needed help, and I left my poor mum to tell the rest of the family while we headed for the hospital. All I could think was, but I am getting married tomorrow, this cannot be happening. But it happened anyway. The nurses, or maybe it was a doctor, confirmed that this cannot be stopped, and that I may need a D&C and full anaesthetic. I had no clue what this was, and my mind got stuck on the but I am getting married tomorrow, this cannot be happening. But it was. I went to the loo before being wheeled into surgery. I looked a sight, my favourite trousers were blood-stained like I had been in a bull fight, and I did not have another set of clothes packed. I did not even have a toothbrush; all I wanted was for this to go away and get married tomorrow. On the loo, I passed a gooey mass, like a big clot during a heavy period, and it was gone before it could register. There was another examination, and my little baby was not there anymore. The gunky clot had been our new life, and it had not been viable. My boobs had not grown like they had done before, I had not craved pickles and hot orange juice. In the end I didn’t need that D&C, and I didn’t need the anaesthetics. I probably needed a friend, or the dad, and my own bed. I was awake most of the night, watching the street and car lights, trying to process what had happened. My skin felt dry and itchy, and I did not feel or look like a bride to be. My nail varnish was at home and my fancy schmancy body lotion also. All I could do was being awake and waiting the night away. As relaxed as I had been about the kind of wedding we were going to have, but I did not think there was a wedding to be had now. In my own quirky way, I wanted to feel and look the bomb on the day. How does one call off a wedding, I wondered, and what to do with the day and the family. The universe sent me an Earth Angel Jamaican Doctor, and she had all the right words to help me understand. That the baby is lost, but it is not my fault. The foetus gives the signal when something is wrong. I could lose it all now, or I could go home, be with all our small families and commit to one another anyway. To eat the food, to say yes, to be minded by everyone. She offered to give me the exact dosage of painkillers so that I would be in a good place. Even typing that now makes me smile, like a drug dealer in a back alley promising you results. But she found the right words, the right warmth, and a hug for me to help me trust that all will be well. I needed new trousers to even enter the hairdresser, but I would be fine. The hairdresser was a bit of an ordeal, but that was the only thing I needed to get through. The small talk and chit chat while I was guarding what had just happened to me. Everything else was easier, I was doing my own make-up, and the families had been informed by my poor mum. I didn’t need to explain a thing. I went home, my hair up like a bride, my skin still dry and itchy from the hospital air, my old jeans crumpled in a bloody plastic bag. Everyone was at their best, minding me, hugging me, not necessarily knowing what to say. But I could see the compassion and love in their eyes. And everyone was ready to give it their best, to make it a day to remember - as we somewhat grieved a loss, but also celebrated love and life in equal measures. I knew the grieving would come later, but for today we would be thankful for the many other things in our lives. I had intended to drive myself to the church in my old, battered Mazda. But brother-in-law number one snazzed up his posh car and produced ribbons and the lot to make the car bride-worthy. Mother-in-law gave me her warm shawl against my inner cold, and my cousin painted my nails last minute. Dad held our boy, and somebody else helped the best girl in the world to wear her proper white princess dress. Everything got taken care of, so I was able to go at a slower pace into my own wedding day. There was laughter, and warmth, and bubbles blowing, and the essence of love in every particle of the universe, all held within a small wedding party. There was the loss of that angel in the sky, but there was also grace and gratitude for my own life and my two healthy children. 

Later, we planted a strawberry tree, and the kids knew about the angel in the sky, and we named her Emily. The hospital called us back for a conversation after 2 or 3 months. Maybe I thought we would find out something important, but we got a bookmark and funny looks when I asked a couple of questions. I don’t know what I expected, but this was not the place where healing and reconciling happened. The real letting go happened when without much effort we got pregnant again, and new life came our way in the blink of an eye. Of course there was the initial worry after the last setback, but the whirlwind of pregnancy took over, the boobs started to feel pregnant too, and somehow, I knew that everything was going to be alright. 

I’ll never forget the little soul which didn’t come to life, she is part of my heart, and sometimes on quiet walks I look up and send her a smile. The veil between love and loss had been particularly thin for us that day of our wedding, but the answer to death has to be living, living this life with every breath we take. 

My boy who arrived so fast

The pregnancy was a doddle, all went how it should, and my life experience started to show up in my decision-making and how I dealt with challenges. Labour came, and I stayed as calm as a Super Heroine. Counting the minutes, thinking we have plenty of time. My same friend had offered to mind the two kiddos at home while we headed for delivering our third child. I was pottering around in the garden, counting minutes between each contraction, not wanting to spend too much time in hospital on such a beautiful summer’s day. It was the anniversary of my dad, and I loved the timing of it all. And then everything sped up immensely. Where there had been a long breather up until now, there was suddenly one contraction after the other, without any break. It felt like this baby was coming right here and now. I called my friend, but not for minding the kiddos, she had to come with me in the back of the car if I had this baby right there and then. Her hubby came to be the childminder, and the three of us sped off towards the West, still 60 minutes between us and the hospital. I have no idea how I survived that hour. Every pothole and cobble stone reverberated through my whole being, and I had no clue if to push or to hold on against the familiar urge. When I felt like an eternity and fainting from the pressure, I turned my head to look out the window. We were only at the next small town. Still fifty minutes away from the professionals whom I suddenly needed for safety. I was huddled and kneeling on the back seat, clawing my fingers into the upholstery. But even 50 long minutes must eventually pass, I was not able to walk anymore and got wheeled up to wherever babies were born. A couple of checks, and the pushing was coming, the midwife gave her ok too. We just made it onto a bed, and a black mop of hair and another of the most beautiful babies had been born within seconds. I held him, felt a bit lightheaded and then, darkness. When I came to, I noticed the hurried looks on a couple of midwives. My beautiful friend held my hand, and dad held his second boy. I had haemorrhaged badly, and this was a matter of urgency. The blood loss was fast and furious, but the universe was on my side. My midwife knew what she had to do, and she needed to do it fast. She needed to get the torn part of the placenta out of me so I would live. There was all sorts of activity on my floppy belly, and it felt like a horse stood on me and kept pressing deeper to get the damn thing out. I saw the urgency, I subconsciously took in the distress, but I didn’t have enough life blood to connect the dots and understand it fully in that moment. And suddenly there was a sense of peace. The midwives relaxed; their work was done. I had been saved. The baby seemed well. Everything had been done so there was this pause, and a gap in time. My friend hugging me. My baby boy lying on my chest. Our baby boy being weighed and checked over, and straight back to my chest and looking for a little nibble of something. His eyes full of knowing, as if he recognised me as his home, but now on the outside for the first time. I cannot remember much more of that hour, I don’t know where dad was, doing paperwork or just having a breather after this fright. I must have been the only one being blissfully unaware of how close it had been, how fragile my life was in that moment. There was only a gram or less between me and a blood transfusion, and it could have gone either way, but the medical team decided against intervention. Six weeks of rest, iron to take, blood to be made within my own body. I remember thinking about the contradiction, how can you rest six weeks with a newborn, but I nodded to everything that was said and smiled. 

The summer was a good one, and when we went home after a week, there was a lot of light and sunshine to take in. Dad had bought me a cool breastfeeding chair, and we put it under the apple tree in the garden. And then it hit me. The tiredness, the ordeal, the missing haemoglobin, the blood that had to be replaced and made again. I spent the next weeks feeding the munchkin and accepting any help I could get. Any friend that cooked a dinner or helped tidying the dishes away. Anything dad did, where in the past I would have said ah, I can do that. Suddenly it was possible to have a baby and two small kids, but still recover and mind myself too. I did the basics, and that was more than enough. I made new blood for myself and milk for the munchkin and had cuddles and ears and smiles for my three kiddos, and somehow the house kept standing despite some clutter and some delayed cleaning. 

Deep down I knew this was my last child. I had almost died giving new life, but I got lucky. I was not going to risk that again. Three was a family, and a lovely bunch to fill a home, I was not looking to push my fate or fortune on that. Deep down I knew that every single time would be the first and a last milestone for me with this beautiful smiling baby. The last time to see the first smile. The last time to lose the first baby tooth. To take the first step, to sleep through the night. Every first would also be a last for me, I would not have another child and experience this again. I took it all in and was more in the moment than ever. There was no point in sweating the small stuff, life itself had become a priority. What I was not able to do the first and second round, I had finally learned in the third. To let go. To let it be. To accept the challenges easier. To get through the tiredness with more grace. Sure, it was only a tummy bug and washing some sheets, this too will pass. My older munchkins benefitted from this too, a mum who started singing again, and being playful in the middle of the day, just because. A mum who could get lost for time with them together on the playground, not fussing and rushing home because the clock said so. A mum that finally took the time to sit, and draw with them, and have patience for slower steps and the pace of a child. 

Life still threw curve balls, and not all was rosy at all. Our marriage did not last, despite trying so very hard. We had lost whatever connection we had had and had become strangers to one another. The emptiness of this could not be silenced by the hustle bustle of our three toddling loudies, and the loneliness was too much to bear. When we parted, we broke the boys’ hearts. If there was any other healthy way, I would have gone for it for them. But there was no path that would see our marriage right, we did not have the tools, and today I truly see that we were not suited for a life together. Our hearts beat at a different sound, and our lights shine very different from one another. The gap was too big to make it a healthy home together. The repercussions of the separation may live on in the children, and they may need to do a few laps on their own paths of healing to safely process it all. If I could take this off them, I would. If I have any regrets, this is the one. That they had to get hurt, no matter what. Neither path was going to be free of pain, and I am not sure if either was the lesser evil. Staying stuck would also have meant pain, and their version of what love is would not have been healthy. 

We had two years where there was anger, and a deep loss, and then things started to settle a little. I would have loved the house and the hubby, the Golden Retrievers and three healthy kids, and all the laughter and connection and fairytale endings we dreamed of when we were younger. But we started having some laughter and sunshine in both houses again and being a little more alright with only one parent around at any given time. Not ideal, but starting to be ok, nevertheless. 

12 years later, the kiddos are flying the nest. 

The best girl in the world has headed for Berlin, two years in the big city of my Motherland, living her life, and only calling on granny, when crap hits the fan. A year of travel, and then making babies, as she so eloquently put it. We will see what life brings, and how the circle of the world continues for us. I have learned that the best laid plans sometimes don’t happen, and that life and the universe may come your way when you least expect it. 

Middle child slash oldest boy is being more independent than I like, and I am so proud of how he is doing it all. Making decisions, getting through the tough parts of his college course, keeping his head down and focusing on the light at the end of the tunnel. He seems to have a fair concept of communication. I have heard him argue his case and speak about his feelings and argue his case with me too. I could not be prouder; he has bypassed what he has seen from his mum and dad and is developing his own way of displaying love and minding the special person in his heart. If a time to lick his wounds will have to be done in the future, he may not shy away from it, he may feel it to heal it, he will have access to his heart more than the last generation. 

And the munchkin. Figuring out his path as I type this. Dwarfing me by more than a head in height. The baby I have minded and nurtured now is so much taller than his mum. I watch him also displaying beautiful signs of emotional intelligence, intuition and understanding. He can be stubborn as hell also, but the heart is pure gold, and his compassion for the world is boundless. I am enjoying the last few months of him living fully at home, and equally I will have to embrace when the path becomes clear to him. My lastborn. My many lasts for his many firsts. My savouring of all these moments, when he had no idea why this was so precious. His sense of humour is wicked, and we don’t expect anyone to share our weirdness. Sometimes the best girl in the world goes like do you know how you nearly killed Mum in childbirth, and he smiles, gives me high five for surviving and says, sorry for the hassle, Mum. The secret language and inside jokes of a family. No outsider will understand, but those are the moments of closeness where we feel like this tight-knit band. 

I gave birth 3.5 times, and I have been birthed. As a mother, as a lover, as a nurturer, as somebody who lost herself and found herself again much stronger. Coming through the birth canal is an ordeal, and painful for everyone involved. Becoming a mother and being far from shallow water is immensely painful and scary at times also. I have lost versions of myself in those last 26 years, and I have re-birthed more experienced versions of who I was becoming. Some of those times I felt like going through a birth canal myself, the pain of growing, and letting go on all levels, physically and emotionally. I had nurtured everyone else, and I had to come back to myself and learn to nurture my own inner person too. Astonishing things happen when we nourish our children, our own inner child pipes up too, and all the unmet needs surface when we least expect it. Another re-birth, and supporting that inner child yourself now, with a new understanding for the shortcomings of your own parents. Forgiveness. The circle of life, and another round with yourself in the middle, and within the speed of light at the periphery. The experience of parenting can feel like an explosion of the heart, with bittersweet pain or sweet-bitter joy. At the end of the day, I take it all. The Yin and the Yang, the two sides of the coin, and all the colours in-between black and white.

I have been birthed. I have been changed. I have been challenged. And I have passed on life. We are only passing through, so may you fly my beautiful kids, may you fly, and experience it all with a full heart too.