The chap I married is not a morning person. He takes exception every morning to having a five year old creeping into his room between five and seven and asking in a booming voice,
“Is it waking up time yet?”
He typically does a strong impression of a corpse at this point in order to not have to deal with said child. I can physically feel his body freeze into rigor mortis as the door handle starts to turn.
I’ve been on a journey this weekend, its all been, well, a bit odd, different and unusual.
I haven’t seen my children for nearly thirty hours which means that for that time period I have not had to raise my voice to squeaky screech level; wipe food/dirt/sudacrem off my clothes with a baby wipe; clean up anyone else bodily functions or listen to anyone spontaneously burst in melodramatic false tears because someone else took their chosen toy or knocked their elbow in a non painful manner.
I have a problem.
My delightful beautiful 13 month old daughter seems to be rather resistant to move.
My home looks like it was ransacked by aliens, my skin is pale, the laundry basket is neglected and is shouting its annoyance by allowing underpants and uniforms to spill out under the lid and thus mocking my incompetence. Last nights dishes are still piled in the sink growing a soft covering of fur on the remains of that evenings ready meal. The baby is sporting the heavy nappy look as I try to imagine contemplating the task of changing her and the twins look like they have been dueling with the Gruffalo as their faces assume a bruised look from the remains of yesterdays face painting.
The day I missed a miscarriage…
It was 2009, it was a Friday, the weather was unremarkable, neither hot nor cold with no wind to blow the petals off the roses in the garden.
I was almost thirteen weeks pregnant with my third baby, I had turned a corner and left the exhaustion, the nausea and the love affair with my toilet bowl behind in the first trimester.