it still doesn’t make sense
I was told I was the picture of perfect pregnancy – that glow about me, that goofy smile I couldn’t wipe from my face – because I just couldn’t believe I had a baby growing inside me.
I was doing the right amount of daydreaming about the life ahead of me, about what my baby would look like, how it would feel holding my very own baby in my arms, having a baby seat on the back of my bike for those early morning rides along the beach front.
Forever trying to get the image in my head of the little face I was genetically half responsible for, but could never quite see, because as all first time mums will attest it’s just far too surreal to actually generate.
It was nine months of feeling like the luckiest person on the planet.
I was exactly where I wanted to be, like suddenly everything made sense, and everything I ever wanted was actually, really happening. Finally able to push aside that small deep dread that sat with me for years, that I would never be lucky enough to experience pregnancy – as the growing belly told otherwise. Bliss and dreamlike were my new states of being.
Life was all about baby name debates, room colour dilemmas – is yellow neutral enough?, which car seat to buy, whether to go disposable or cloth nappies, and the best tips to avoid getting stretchmarks . As it should be.
I had to pinch myself to make sure I was truly awake.
Nothing could prepare me for what was to follow.