It’s less than a week to go. I should have a fresh new babe in a few days, they say. I’ll swap sleeping for being able to put on my own shoes. Nice ones.
Livie will have a BFF, a ‘bae’, a soulmate.
And everything will change forever.
I expect what I remember. What else do we ever have to draw from..?
What do we ever know as we gleefully sashay into mummyhood? We colour what’s to come with our hopes, dreams and fears.
We don’t let go of what we take for granted now.
The second time around is kind of scarier than the last. I can remember where I fell, faltered, stumbled. I recognise my “shark music” so well I’ve taken the opportunity to hand notate my own personal opus in ruled notebooks as music therapy.
But when is our past experience our ally – a strength to be counted upon – and when does its reassuring lullaby lull you into a Polly-Annic nonchalance? What is our experience really worth?
I know how to dance to Olivia’s music (I like to think it has a heavy emphasis on percussion), but I don’t know what instrument Goldie will wield – or where she will fit into our little family’s orchestra.
And so to the heart of the matter:
If motherhood’s like any other job and we welcome a new little person into our fold, what is our new position in the company? Have we just received a promotion (extra perks, extra responsibility), or have we been transferred into another department completely? Are we suddenly the most experienced interns around?
After Olivia’s birth, I remember the distinct feeling of emptiness without her actually inside of me. I realised it’d taken mere months to redefine who I was by the (temporary) state of what I was: a mother-to-be.
I’d made plans, built hopes, let expectations run riot. Things were expected from me, and I was excused from even contemplating others.
It was on. The curtain’s lifted, and even before the lighting engineer has got his act together, you’re twisting about like a marionette hoping he’ll catch your best/worst/any angle.
The act of motherhood – onstage, without a script – is like one of those experimental impro shows where you just hope no one in the audience stands up and leaves. If you’ve come back for babe #two, Brava. Someone’s still in the playhouse.
In other news, tonight my eyebrows decided to fall out. Seriously – half of them have gone, all at once. There wasn’t any warning! I pensively rubbed my forehead to find myself covered in spindly fluff.
Foraging for the iPhone, I reversed the camera view to discover my newfound baldness. In panic, I’ve starting rehearsing my script for when I turn up in tears to Chemist Warehouse tomorrow morning.
I guess I can say I will meet my tiny daughter with a fresh face (I’m afraid to touch any part of my face now in case the remaining hairs take off on a belated babymoon).
But such little distractions might help dispel the anxiety building inside me this last week.
Itty bitty, exquisite expectations…
… and even smaller eyebrows. .
On a practical note, we are still accepting new orders! We appreciate your patience – we don’t expect huge dispatch delays, but our little bundle of joyful chaos will be our main focus for the next few weeks.
Your order might be several days later than it would ordinarily arrive. Your understanding means the world to us!