A baby is born, and so is a mother.
You came into my life the way everything else does - quickly and screaming.
I had closed eyes. I was floating outside of my body, for the pain had taken over my physical being, and the gas had numbed my brain. I can, though, still remember first turning my eyes toward you, and it felt incredibly strange and beautiful and unreal all at once.
I don't know what I had pictured - but it somehow took me aback to see a blotchy, blood covered, terrified little human. I perhaps just hadn't thought about it all that much, if I'm perfectly honest. I'd spent most of my days dreaming about cuddling you and teaching you to cook and playing peek-a-boo, but I'd not realistically imagined your coming into this world. For that, I was probably incredibly lucky to have only had an 8 hour labour - I feel it would have required much more premeditated mental strength had it of carried on for say, 12 or more hours, which is common. I don't know what I'd have done, were that the case, considering 8 hours of labour was enough to take me through the motions of feeling like I might actually die; I recall telling myself 'it's going to happen, you have to let it happen', which in the light of a pain-free evening sounds incredibly bizarre, but toward the end of those 8 hours was the only thought that felt logical and comprehensible.
But, despite the pain, we did so well. You were born healthy - four words which I appreciate how blessed I am to be able to say. To be able to watch your father cut the precious cord, to see the joyful tears from your grandmother, to be able to feed you - all at a gentle pace - that is something I hold so dearly in my heart.
And then, overnight, I became a mother. I shed a skin, though despite an incredibly incongruous past to the way I live now, I felt instantly that my entire life, all it's bumps and bruises, had been solely leading toward this new body - this new soul. I feel as though I have always been destined to be a mother, which I suppose is biologically correct, but it so much more than that. Every test in my lifetime has lent me the lessons of patience, resilience, positivity, compassion, empathy and reflection that are so necessary in being everything you need from me. In the moment that I felt that I was yours, the small universe inside of my being lit up, all of it's flaming stars melted and settled into one another, in that moment and I knew that all the chaos was done with.
All that remains is a brave and sturdy glowing light, which Morrisey has informed me, will never go out.
You may now be independent of my body, but I feel you threaded through my heart as though it is where you have lived and will live forever.
I have always been restless - I have lived in many houses and have seldom felt 'at home' anywhere in the world, and usually when I feel it, I leave, whether it be intentionally or because I've run out of options. I couldn't tell you how many precious people I've had the pleasure of calling my best friend, or lover - I couldn't tell you how many people have broken my heart or how many times my broken heart has broken the rest of me. I have an itch in my soul that wants for me to never stay still, to experience all that I can, the good and the bad, and to remain sentimental and never to let go of any of it. It's a terrible, anxiety ridden kind of hastiness, that leads to all kinds of mistakes.
There are days when you are sleeping and I am dreaming of being a thousand miles away, doing irresponsible dangerous things. But those days are growing fewer.
You are teaching me to take things slowly. To appreciate stillness and silence. I see you smile and there's no where else in the world I would rather be - and I mean that more than most things I've ever said in my life. I feel myself starting to settle into our life as a family, without planting seeds of resentment along the way, as I've watched so many young mothers unknowingly do. I remind myself at different intervals to, literally, exhale. Sometimes, sometimes, that itch furrows my brow and clenches my heart - but you soothe it, and I didn't think it was ever possible.
There are people without children who view babies as only partly 'real' people. There is no possible way of comprehending parent hood or how much of a 'real' person you're dealing with, until you're in the thick of it. But you, my sweet babe, are full of warmth and love and humour and brains. You're the realest thing that I've experienced - not only that, but the most worthwhile.
Thank you, Finn. I will indulge in the cliche of 'you complete me', for you truly do.
