Space.
..the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Peace and Quiet. Its 8 hour mission, to allow a mother to rediscover who the hell she is...all on her own.

Today is my day without my kid, a day that she goes to daycare, and I have ostensibly the whole day to myself.
I need this day like a drowning man needs water, like a PMSing woman needs chocolate. I.need.it.
I wonder often why it is, that while I totally enjoy my child and love the fact she is around - that by the time Friday comes I would cheerfully swap her for a trained budgie. I mean REALLY.
By Friday, I am tired of having conversations that remind me of my druggie days. Sample:
Me: "Mouse, would you like toast or yogurt?"
Mouse: "Bob the Builder has a hat".
Me: "That's cool. Toast or yoghurt".
Mouse: "Um...Blue."
Me: (fuck this shit).
And note, it's not that she doesn't understand me, she just is directing the conversation in the way she wants it to go. Toast is boring, blue is not, apparently.
So anyway. I adore having 8 hours to myself.

Sometimes by Thursday night, after I've read, sung,tucked, re-tucked, sung, banished monsters and held sippy cups, I am fantasing about solitude while I am singing my current take on a lullabye standard. And it shows.
"Rockabye babeee, please will you dream. Mummy is tired and about to fucking scream. If you go sleepies without a fuss, Mummy will not want to run under a bus." (try it, it scans quite well).

All of which I suppose makes me either a supremely honest mother, or a bad one. I prefer to think the former.

I doubt any mother, especially one that is into her kids and actually does things with them, doesn't feel like I do at least once a week. If you are actually trying to relate to your kid, and help them on the road to peoplehood, and assist their learning and ensuring that they are picking up social rules (such as not running around a restaurant at lunchtime like a tasmania devil) and trying to interact with them - hell, it's much more exhausting and wearisome than just plopping them in front of a video. At least that's what I tell myself.

I am a better mother the other 6 days a week, for getting a break. And she seems to like me more on Saturdays then she does on Thursday nights, so I assume the feeling is mutual. For all I know, she is mentally fuguing when I am blathering away to her, thinking 'what the fuck do I care whether this is an apple or a persimmon? Will it matter when I am in a metal band and shagging groupies?'

What I don't get though, is why admitting that you need a break from your child, is somehow considered to be a shameful secret. Are you supposed to be triptrapping thru the tulips 24/7 at the thought of yet another round of Let's Make Playdo Snakes'? Is it not completely understandable that you want some time to read a book without pictures, or write or think or loll about in bed like a dead pasha?

I didn't lose everything I was, when I had a child. I didn't suddenly become a woman who was OKAY with not being able to take a leak without a pair of knee-high beady unblinking eyes watching. I didn't all of a sudden decide I LIKED being covered in various food detrius or feeling like a mama baboon with her baby on her for hours and hours.

I still need some personal space. I still need some time to remember that while yes, this is the most important thing I've ever done - it doesn't mean that I can change into a whole 'nother person just because the baby books and the stepford mummies say I should.

No one can keep their cool for the umpteenth time in a row that juice is being spilled deliberately. Sure it may be 'boundary testing' and it may be a necessary part of child development and blahblahblahexperts, but I can tell you - by the third time, it just appears willful and naughty to me - and I am gonna shout. Loudly. And if this is happening for the 1000th time and it's Thursday night - I will start mentally composing 'For Sale Cheap: One Toddler' ads.

No one can be THAT interested in child stuff all the time. It's boring. It's boring to help with jigsaw puzzles that you can do in 2 seconds but have to draw out to 15 minutes. It's boring to read about Daisy the Duck when you have the new Anne Tyler stashed in your bedside table. it's boring to ooh and ah over scribble that may or may not be a flower. And it's hard to be enthusiasic and interested and passionate all the time.

So there. I said it.

And in two hours, my kid is going to come home waving a scribbled creation from preschool, full of her day and who hit who, and I am going to love every minute of it. Because I am back to being me, and she is back to being her, and we look at each other with fresh new eyes. She'll give me a heartfelt hug and follow me round the kitchen, and I'll be interested in her day, because I wasn't the one orchestrating it. I'll be interested in her conversation, because there's been 8 hours of silence before it - and the silence became deafening. I missed her. She missed me.

And if it takes one day a week for us to regroup and gather our collective forces for the week's journey ahead - then that can only be a good thing. I love my kid, and she loves me. But we are separate people and we always will be. And knowing this, makes me a good mother. Oh yes it does.

Living.

I haven't written here for the past week, because...

Because....

I thought I was pregnant. 7 days and counting.

But this morning in the dark, I discovered I wasn't. I disengaged my daughter's sleepy arm from around my neck, and prepared to face the truth.

I sat outside in the dark, watching the moon die and the sun come up, listening to the cicadas and getting rained on. Smoking my first cigarrette in ages, watching the smoke plume up into the blue blackness.

'Okay' I thought. 'You aren't. So you have a choice. You can sit here and smoke butt after butt and rage and moan and weep and wail about how damn unfair it is to have your hopes raised like that - and it is unfair - or you can get up, go back to bed with your hub and your child and restart the day a little later.'

I chose the second option.

Not to say I haven't had a good cry. Not to say I haven't cursed that deity (whose existence I seem only to believe in when life is cruel). I cursed it long and loud. And I wept over the unfairness as I kissed my daughter's head on my pillow, and held her little hand as she whimpered and searched blindly for the comfort of a big solid body next to her in bed.

And I hugged my husband, who had finally started allowing himself to dream of babies over the weekend, and who found himself instead having to comfort a wife who hadn't really allowed herself the luxury of hope anyway.

And then I got up, and made coffee and put the toast in the toaster, turned the tv to The Teletubbies and ironed a shirt and made lunch and tidied up and kissed my sad husband goodbye and managed a smile and a wisecrack to send him out the door and got in the shower and got dressed and averted a crisis with Elmo and sang Twinkle Little Star...as normal. What else can you do?

You can choose to live your life waiting for hope to become more tangible, or you can reach down inside yourself and yank that dream out and live among the things that you can touch and feel and love right now.

I choose the NOW.

Inchoate.

What on earth possessed me to streak my hair blonde? I look like I have a giant yellow mop on my head. I look like I should have a cig hanging outta my mouf and be wearing tight red pedal pushers and spike heels and stay away from bright street lights.

*sigh* I do this regularly. I get bored with the way I look and I dye my hair strange colours or throw out everything in my wardrobe and rebuy stuff that only a woman in the throes of some sort of dementia would actually leave the house wearing.

I bought a purple fake fur vest. I look like an extra in Monsters Inc. in it. Only I don't have horns. Actually, change that - I look like an extra in a Wagnerian opera. All I need is the iron tits.

Do you ever look in the mirror and just get bored all to tears by the face looking back at you? Or is it just me?

My eyes are boring - they are blue and regular and have been that way forever. Maybe I'll get blazing yellow cats eye contacts. Woo, that will impress the playgroup mummies.

My nose is generic, straight and plain. Not an interesting bump in site. Maybe I'll smack myself in the face and see if I look like something exotic. Wait, with my luck I'll look like a goalie.

My skin is fair and freckled. I wish I could dye it blue or something cool. Too bad woad isn't in style.

Maybe it's not the way I look. Maybe it's the way I feel about me and about things.

I feel 'stuck' and boring and settled and invisible. I see my life as grey and blurry and wispy.

A perspective exercise - two parallel lines, straight, plain and clean - marching endlessly into the future. No unexpected detours.

Do you think it's the age I am at, or the job I do?

Mother's Day

Hey it's mother's day here tomorrow. I am cooking dinner for Marc's mum, and I am gonna make sure I steal a little time away from the chaos to bop around to Motown with the pint size diva who made me a mother.

And I also want to wish my own mother all the love and hugs that I am too far away to give her. My mother taught me everything I know about motherhood. It's because of her, that I am a good mum. And I wish she understood just how much I love her. And how much I miss her.

She taught me that it's okay to have flaws. My mum isn't perfect - I have memories of her chasing me up the stairs with a wooden spoon, of losing it with me as I sassed her as only a smart 12 year old can, and of causing her a great deal of pain and grief over some of the choices I made. And she let me know that she cried.

She taught me that you don't have to agree. She has some funny ideas. But I won't laugh about them in public anymore - I've grown up. And I don't debate them anymore - I have nothing to prove by winning, except that I can. And this isn't a battle, it's my family.

She taught me forebearance. I gave her grey hairs and worry lines. She caught me drinking underage in punk clubs at 15. She bore it when I left home and lived with a guy 10 years older than me.
She bore up bravely when I eloped and married a guy she didn't like.

She taught me to expect anything. She winged her reactions through my interesting career choices, and held my shoulders when I wept when my first marriage was over. She waved goodbye to me at the airport when I left to come here, knowing that this was probably for good, and that it would be a long time between return visits. She supported me even knowing how ill-prepared and how naive I was. She knew I had to do it. She let me make my own mistakes. She loved me enough to do this.

She taught me to accept whatever your child hands you. She never told me she thought I was a fuckup. Even though, I disappointed her too many times, I think. And I still cause her worry and heartbreak even now. Without even trying, it seems.

She taught me forgiveness. She allowed me to sneer, to be rude about her choice to opt out of a career, and she let me pontificate with the arrogance of ignorant youth. She loved me anyway. I made her so angry she spluttered, and made her cry - more than once, I am ashamed to say.

She taught me love. She never backed off, she never shut me down - she loved me. No matter what. When we disagreed, we did so loudly and emotionally - and when we hugged and made up, it was unreservedly.

We still fight, she still makes me mentally roll my eyes, and I am sure she despairs of me in my ongoing dramas.

But I love her, and I miss her, and I feel so very far away. And if I learned one thing about being a good mother, it's that it never stops, it can't be quantified and it can't be rationed.  A mother's love - a force to be reckoned with.

My mother loves me - of that I have no doubt. And when you know that, there isn't much the world can throw at you that will tip you under.

Now go and call your mother.

 

Crap.

That's what every person who walked by the volunteers selling badges and gear for the Starlight Foundation are.

Do you hear me? Mr. Suit Jacket-Hurriedly-Pulling-Out-His-Mobile-Phone and Miss I'll- Fumble-in-My-Purse -so-I-Don't-Have-to-Look-Up??? That goes for you too, you giggling bunch of teenage girls stuffing your faces with junk food and finding the way the volunteers look hilarious. You should be slapped.

There were these two guys - wearing doofus bright yellow tshirts over their suits, with cardboard trays of keyrings, lapel pins and the like, standing in one of the worst wind tunnels in Sydney, beseeching people to donate something for children's hospitals and the Make A Wish Foundation. There were crowds of people pushing past them. Since this was a business section (Information Technology) area, the passersby were well dressed, and i.m.p.o.r.t.a.n.t.

They kept getting the brush off. You could see realisation slowly dawn on their faces that yes, in this wealthy area of Sydney, people actually were not going to donate. People had more important priorities.

Narcissistic fuckers.

It's for sick kids, assholes. You know, kids with leukaemia, who might not ever get to own a mobile phone, have a good shag, be hungover, do too many E's at the club, get pompous with the wife, smoke ciggies and be too busy to give a rats arse about anyone other than themselves.

If I had been those volunteers, I'd have harassed and harangued every single assclown that pretended I wasn't there. I'd have followed them down the street shaming them - "Hey buddy, $2 is less than the cost of the condom in your wallet! Hey girlie, $2 is 1/10th of the cost of the makeup spackled all over yo' face! Hey mister - planning on going home to the wife and your HEALTHY kids tonight? Lucky you!" and so on, until I got thrown in gaol. It would have been worth it, just to shake the self rightous complacency off those faces.

I dunno. What is with people who can obviously afford $4 for a mocha cafe latte not wanting to throw $2 into a tin box to help make a dying or sick kid's life easier?

Are this kids not tragic enough? Not glamourous enough?  I guess it's not trendy to have your hair fall out when you are an 8 year old girl. Or have your head have a big lumpy scar in it when you are a toddler.

Hey maybe they asked to get that sick.

No?

Then tell me. Why isn't this worth $2?

Fuck fuck fuck.

I am so angry. But most of all, I am very very sad. And ashamed to be wearing a suit and own a mobile phone.

And if you are one of those people who would pass these volunteers by - please don't tell me. I couldn't bear it. There is no excuse. None. Take me off your 'sites you read' if you even think there is a valid reason for such behaviour. Seriously.

ps. yes, I bought a keychain, a pen, a lapel pin, a stress star and a roll of stickers. It set me back a whopping $20. And yes, I also support other charities regularly. This does not make me a saint, it makes me a good human being.

one more thing: and I volunteered to put my management consultant skills, my organisation skills and my rage to use for the next campaign. fear my rage for I shall be a yellow t-shirted doofus.

Fright.
My child has gone from being fearless and foolhardy to a whimpering clinging mess in the space of a month. From a developmental standpoint, it's become a hobby of mine to figure how such a fear took root:
The dark. (This one, I get. I am not so keen on the dark - but then I read newspapers and watch the news and occasionally Arnie Schwartzenegger movies. What I don't get is how a child who's had nothing but Spot and Ernie and Bert stories read to her, gets to be afraid of the dark?)
The vacuum cleaner. (cool. Mama is scared of it too. Perhaps if I used it more often, she wouldn't assume that the end of the world is coming everytime I switch it on. I tend to hurl things out of the way while pushing it furiously and glancing at my watch in a sheer panic.)
House flies. (a big problem here in Australia, as they are the national animal.)
The dog. (to the dog's eternal disapointment, Mouse will not go outside if the dog is anywhere in sight. You can see the dog go limp with chagrin as Mouser resolutely refuses to play 'slobber stick')
Elephants. (this stems from an illadvised trip to the Australian Museum where they had a full scale elephant skeleton on display. Okay, it DID look big  - but what on earth did she think it was, and why is whatever she thought BAD?)
Fish. (she refuses to look at them in fishtanks. Or in the front window of the local fish monger. And I have not one clue when and why this fear happened. My only suspicion is that dreadful Rainbow Fish book/cartoon/money sucker. Maybe she doesn't like the thought of living under the sea, and fish with eyelashes. Fair enough, me neither).
and last but not least:
Cartoons. (this is due to me being a slack exhausted mama and popping in The Lion King for her one rainy day. Silly me, I thought it was 'G' rated and therefore innocuous. Too bad about the DADDY LION FALLING DOWN A CLIFF AND GETTING TRANPLED BY A HERD OF WILDEBEAST!! C'mere Mr. Disney, you can sit up with my 2 year old and explain why every cute big eyed cartoon animal in your video is weeping and what exactly happened to the daddy. And remember, she's TWO so keep it simple. Yeah right, hold that little guy HIGH over the cliff - I've had to hide the cover from Mouse. Yet another reason to hate Disney.

...it's becoming tough to be the one with all the answers. Especially since I have things I am afraid of as well:

Big trucks. Specifically, with pornographic mudflaps and drivers with Elvis quiffs.
Old ladies ahead of me on the bus who are unsteady on their pins and who are evincing a determination to find every last coin in the bottom of their purse while balancing in between the doors.
Rhodesian Ridgebacks - specifically the two that live two doors down in a yard that is too small for my Kelpie and who hurl themselves against the fence everytime someone walks down 'their' street.
Makeup salesladies. I run a mile when one of them approaches, makeup brush in hand. I take alternative routes through department stores to avoid them. Yes, I have issues. Yes, I have been 'madeover'. Yes, I looked like a television evangelist and my current look of lipstick and a swipe of mascara is all that will ever be happening. I am too scared that dumb is contagious or that I will not educate myself out of a relationship with God.
Frat boys in bars/pubs having drinking contests. Especially if it looks like they are about 19 and not too long away from their mamas.
Mullets. They scare me. Men with mullets make my ovaries wither and try to crawl into my throat. If you have a mullet - it is not cool, it makes you look like an axe murder who lives at home with mum.
Sincere earnest people. All of them, but I really avoid with panic those individuals with clipboards who veer towards me as I am coming out of a)the cinema b)the local fast food joint or c)any store where I have not got a credit card. I practice looking in my purse until I am past them - even if it means stepping directly into oncoming traffic.
Spiders, and any pest or vermin that is a) bigger than my thumb b) has more legs than I do and c) appears on a chart distributed by the local chemists with an emergency telephone number underneath.

And that's mine. And that's why I am useless at telling my child there is nothing to be afraid of. After all, her reasons are most likely as real and as important to her and mine are to me. Who's to say being afraid of an elephant is any less valid that being afraid of a woman with an earnest expression waving a clipboard?
 

Cheap.

Okay - this is a cheap nasty and superficial rant. So stop reading if you are gonna get po-faced and righteous, okay?

Last night I got online and read someone's blog that talked about how big Xanga is. Well I hadn't a clue since I tend to be terribly terribly loyal to those who read me, and read them and only them in return.  yeah well, and I still drink only one single malt scotch as well.

But I digress.

So I read everyone and commented and propped and tried to sound witty, and lawdie - the Mouse was still asleep, so I clicked on the 'Find a Random Site' thingie on the Xanga Home page.

And this is what I got:

(a few details have been changed but if you can figure out who this is and what they said, bless you for you are the chosen one.)

hEy...i bEen kiNda bz dEze dayz......im dePrEssIn n stReSsin...sOmtYmz i WOnDer if iz wUrT it, gOIn tHrU liFe in a rUteEn, eVry weEkdAy tO skoo...~i gEt sO mAd bEcAs wE spINt aBat a fOrT oR thIrT our liFes iN sKoo....i mEan is dAt rIlLy woRtH it? jEz trY tO gE riCh, hAv a niCe life, n pAss iT on...i mEan riLly, dIz is kInda stUpiD i thiNk abOut it.....siNs wE cAn rEmEBer, wEre in skOo, till wHeN we iN mId 20's...myBe iZ mE, bUt i rilLy doNt like sKoo...i dunNo...

but wait, there's more:

hEy*~pPl tOdAi wUz ReaLlI BoRiNg..mAn mYE BaCk iZ KilLiN Me.sOo bOrIn aFtErSkOoL CuZ EBe1 hAb BaNd so mE jUsT wenT HomE.MaN I hAb 2 gO 2 ChUrCh ToDaI iSh. Uh...(o.O)weLl Ne wAyZ mE SoO FrEaKeN BoReD RiTe nOw..wElL

Someone please translate. And these are just some of the many I kept getting. It makes my head hurt. What language is this? And is it hip and i am just so far into the dark ages that I don't get it? There are lots of them out there. Is this some secret high school thing? is it written like this so old fuddy duddies like me won't get it and start snorting about the decline in today's youth?

I mean, I want to say - great, this person is writing and thinking and that's the point. And that english isn't a static language and it is constantly evolving and needs to stay fresh.

But I can't. This is just painful. And pointless. And unreadable. And scary. And worst of all... B.O.R.I.N.G.

If you are going to write - tell me about something that matters to you. Tell me how you hate chemistry and your teacher has an ass the size of Cleveland and wears plaid suits, tell me about the cool kids who make you feel like shit, tell me you did a shitload of drugs when your parents went out of town, or you just had great sex or you failed your trig exam and your parents will go nuts, or your dad is an asshole or something that means something to you dammit!

Good on kids for wanting to write. And who cares about grammar, cos I sure don't - not on a blog. But hot damn, if you are going to go to all the effort of putting your words out there - make them readable, legible and worth the effort. This is just verbal word salad. You won't be able to read them yourselves in 2 years time.

aN b-ziDs, mebe iFn u wEn to skOo mOr u  cUd spIl aN wUd bE da riCh n hAv a niZe lIf iNsTed of bE mEkIn mI iZ pOp oUTtA mA skUUll.

(and so sayeth the bitch. Off to read Charles Bukowski)

Friends.

Recent events in my life have made me ponder the nature of friendship - well, specifically what constitutes a friend in my rare circle of air.

Sometimes friendship is such a cloudy thing. It changes every time you think you've got it sorted out. It's not as clear as it was when you were a kid and your best friend was whomever happened to be playing outside on the sidewalk in front of your house, or had a new two-wheeler.

I have friends that I consider to be my lifeblood, and yet I see them once every 4 or 5 years, and write them Christmas cards and the occasional email or letter every couple of months. And yet, when we do see each other - it's like the past has gone and we pick up right where we left off, stuck inside each other's lives like a cork in a wine bottle. We love each other despite the fact she 'stole' the only serious crush I ever had in high school just because she could, and despite the fact that I crush her like an ant in any philosophical or ethical arguments. Friends because of shared experiences who entangled during our adolescence. We never separated. We fit each other still - even 25 years on and a trio of husbands and babies later.

Then there are the friends I see regularly. We have babies in common and along the diapered road to child raising, we discovered we had the same musical taste, or the same attitudes to books - so we are friends. We hang out, we chat on the phone, we are comfortable with each other. But not too much, there's still a long way to go before we forgive each other minor transgressions. We are friends because of our commonality, and haven't yet figured out whether it's worth it to discover our differences. Like ex-pats in a foreign land who hook up because they both had the same original starting point for their journey.

And there are my "good acquaintances", you know, the ones that you end up hugging blearily in the bar at 3am, swearing you'll call each other next week since this was so great. Uh yeah. We see each other at parties and celebrations in the circle we move in, and always end up staring into our scotches at the end of the night, trying to remember why we don't call each other more often. I think it's because we don't want to find out what we are like on our own, without the comfortable backs of the herd around us. I think it's more about convenience than friendship - a friendly face in an ocean of people we could do without.

So now there's a new twist. Online friends. These straddle all boundaries don't they? Some of my online buddies I have known for a couple of years now, to the point where they fall into the life blood category - or pretty damn near. We've shared horror stories, triumphs and disasters and cut pretty damn near the bone sometimes. But we've never actually met in real life.  I still think of them as friends though. We've been through some wars together - separations, childbirth, moves, marital discord - the whole gamut.

And then there are the others. People who I think could be friends, but haven't quite trusted myself enough to follow through yet. The danger with online is that your perceptions could really just be mirrored back at you. (But I've blathered about that before). But I am slowly realising that there is a wealth of nice people out there, like me, who chose the internet as a way of communicating because it got past all the bullshit - and allowed access straight to the heart. No silliness about appearance or accents or skin colour or clothing or any of that superficial stuff that we like to pretend doesn't affect your perceptions - but certainly does.

Words, just words. Nothing more, and perhaps nothing else but friendship through a shared vocabulary. Speaking the same language, the same dialect even, and not being distracted by anything other than the roads down which your words take you.

Pretty trippy.

Wow.

It's been a week since I wrote. I haven't been online that much. I needed to do some thinking and sorting through. Really sorting through.

It's been an odd week - things once again very rocky on the home front, and well... the line was drawn in the sand. It remains to be seen how the domestic drama plays out. Either way - it's got to be better than it's been. Or at least that is what I choose to believe. That's what I think right now.

Trying to get the house in order, since we are looking to sell it and make some money out of Sydney's crazy real estate market. I have a yen to move further up the coast away from people. Have I mentioned I have hermit-like tendencies? I think I like solitude a lot - and being farther away from my mother-in-law would be a good thing. She doesn't help.

And maybe starting over is what we need. We haven't had any time without Mouse since she was born, with the exception of a weekend when we went back home for my sister's wedding - and my mum and dad looked after her. There is simply no one here to take her. My mother in law is both derepit and foolish. My friends are all on their second babe with a toddler in tow - not eager to take  on another little hurricane.

And our limited finances mean nights out are not really in the budget - not when a movie and dinner comes to close to $100 once you factor in a babysitter.

No wonder we are exploding under the pressure. But there is no solution so we have to suck it up. So maybe a change is as good as a rest. Maybe a shared goal, shared reliance and no outside influences will bandage some things.

And the alternative is do it alone, which doesn't scare me. I just wonder how much of the issues we have are due to living in a pressure cooker of parenting, altered roles, reduced finances and changed expectations. Seems to me it would be a shame to chuck it all for something that will change as Mouse gets older.

Or will it? That's what I've been wrestling with all week. Adapt or die.

We really haven't much choice. Do we?

*off to catch up with all of you*

No.

My girl is not something I can discard to pick up later when it's convenient.

We have a history she and I... She doesn't know it yet, and perhaps she never will. What purpose would it serve?
But I know, and I remember from the beginning.

I held tight to the faint promise of hope in the early months. When far too soon after my loss, she made her presence known.

I nurtured the tiny ember of hope for 12 weeks.

Frantic at ultrasounds, searching for a heartbeat. Remembering the last time.
Hiding my secret in case it turned into a tragedy. I barely dared to believe, I barely dared to dream.

I rehearsed the dark outcome so I would be ready.

Stamping out daydreams and thoughts about the future. It was mine, too fragile to hope for, it was mine and it was good. How dare I?

Her inside. Making me dream.

I will not leave without my child.

I was sleepless, existing on 3 hours of sleep a night. Sleepwalking through days living on the promise of what was to come.

Every turn in bed, agony for 6 months. Hip sockets splitting.

And yet every week that went by, the promise was surer. The pain was something to hold onto to.

I went on. The dreams became fantasies. The fantasies could be tasted.

I will not leave without my child.

I injected myself every day, so that my body welcomed my girl,
Didn't attack it and kill it as it had done before.

I still have the scars across my belly from needles that punctured daily for 8 months. Purplish brown, they march across me, badges of hurried mornings. Those marks will never fade. I am afraid of blood and of needles and of hospitals. I still am. But not then.

I will not leave without my child.

I grew toxic. My girl poisoning me as she grew. I was swollen, joints cracking, hobbling in pain as I grew bigger and she grew stronger.

She fed off me, she was determined to live. Unlike the others. Tough girl. My girl.

And because she was mine, I endured. I knew no better - I'd never done this before.
She kicked, she tumbled, my acrobatic child, not knowing the agony she caused.

I played music to her on headphones, read stories out loud, told her who I was and all my secrets.

Held out promises for her if she'd just make it through. Bargained with the devil and sold my soul.

I will not leave without my child.

I knew the odds. I knew that she was more than my body could bear.

Dying, grasping at straws, I told the doctors - told anyone who would listen - 'save my child, save my child'.

I prepared myself never to see her face. To have borne all this and never see what had become.  It was a price I was willing to pay.

Have you faced death for her yet?

Have you bartered away anything that anyone ever believed in for someone whom you'd never met? Traded away what comes next for something you might not even see?

I have. It is a dark place to be.

I will not leave without my child.

They tore her from me in a hurry, while I lay unconscious. They weren't graceful, there were no finesse.

I was dying. Dying. I rose up and looked down.

Saw her being held and wrapped, bloody and shaking, mewling in fright. Saw myself white and bruised and gore streaked on a table. Unaware of what I'd just done.
I called out for her repeatedly, causing nurses to soften and doctors to mutter and shake their heads. Sedation is what shut me up.

I dragged myself with the morphine pump down the hall. Holding my insides in, so I could see that she was perfect less than a day later. My fierceness scared me. My passion was instant.

I have a scar from one end of my belly to the other. It is a daily reminder of what it cost to have her.

I will not leave without my child.

I couldn't leave her then, and I won't leave her now.

I will not leave without my child.

Her face, her eyes, her hair may be from you. She may sing like your mother, or hold her head like your father. She may captivate like her father, and sulk like her mother.

But I carried her. I endured for her. I prepared to die for her. I bargained for her. 

I will never ever let her go.

So understand me.

I will not ever ever leave without my child.