One Year In

I was too scared to leave the house for the first five weeks and when I eventually did I tentatively put one foot in front of the other for fear my insides were going to fall out as I hadn’t been very consistent with my pelvic floor exercises.

At five weeks old the baby felt too heavy to carry and my internal organs too loose to risk it, so the steps I took were little as I pushed her in her stroller, an inconvenient monstrosity that I had to quickly learn how to navigate around Walthamstow’s narrow streets. I avoided eye contact with other new mums doing the same thing because I was terrified I’d have to have yet another conversation about how traumatic and lonely giving birth during a pandemic was. Plus my ADHD symptoms seemed to sky rocket after the birth, meaning I found focusing and forming cohesive sentences more problematic than usual. Making friends is hard enough without all that so I tried to avoid it where possible and instead focus on how little sleep I was getting.

Having kids was what other people did. And when I was growing up, looking after other people’s kids was what my mum did. For that reason, among others, I didn’t want kids. Or at least I thought I didn’t because it looked too hard and every parent I saw looked stressed, miserable and tired and I was already stressed, miserable and tired so I had no plans to make my life any harder. And after watching my mum’s health deteriorate because of the stress she went through, I wondered why I would ever put myself through it. I could sleep for as long as I wanted and leave my dog with friends when I wanted to go on holiday, which was often. Occasionally I’d feel broody but always suppress those feelings because I was still so traumatised from experiences in my own childhood that I didn’t want to inflict my suffering and unhealthy coping mechanisms on an innocent human.

And I liked eating out and sleeping in.

Five years ago almost to the day I had major surgery to remove several fibroids, one of which was attached to my bladder and was so big it was pushing my other organs out of the way as it grew. Since I’d never heard of fibroids and thinking it would just be a quick surgery where I’d be fine when I woke up, I took my laptop to hospital to do some work. That surgery came two years after being diagnosed with ADHD, which completely blindsided me and left me reeling. But with the help of some very strong drugs I was frantically playing catch up in life after 34 years of feeling useless.

I was also in therapy because every other part of my life had been falling apart but I was finally accepting that I wasn’t just a hyperactive, inattentive, impulsive person who made bad decisions. But a hyperactive, inattentive, impulsive person with a chemical imbalance in her brain. So I wasn’t going to let a little surgery keep me from burning the candle at both ends, much to my consultant’s dismay.

That surgery triggered a long and painful healing journey that I was not ready to go on. I’d felt it brewing for years after almost ending my marriage, suffering stress so severe it manifested itself on my skin, in my breathing, and in my behaviour. Every time I closed my eyes I’d get sleep paralysis. I had no appetite - a side effect of the ADHD meds, which meant I was getting very little nutrition. And I had no desire to eat because I (shamefully) enjoyed how much weight I dramatically lost in a short space of time (that I have since put back on and pretend not to care about).

After the surgery I didn’t recover and I was in pain every single day. And I cried every single day. The last time I cried every day was for an entire year after my wedding from hell but this was due to physical (and I later found out emotional) pain but not knowing why. And it made me want children even less. I had to have another surgery to fix some things which I also hoped would solve the pain problem, but it didn’t. The pain was relentless so I begged my consultant to remove my uterus, which is what I thought was the source of my pain (it wasn’t). She refused, telling me her job was to preserve my fertility, a decision I initially hated her for. I cried some more. She told me to remove stress from my life and have a baby.

I did not want a baby.

I was burned out. And a few months later I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a term doctors throw around when they don’t know what’s wrong with you. A lifetime of pain and fatigue was what I could look forward to. The pain being numbed by taking 3x tramadol a day, the only prescribed medication that wouldn’t react negatively with my ADHD meds. I tried it once and vowed never again. The reasons for not having children kept mounting, especially as I could barely walk and would spend days in bed recovering from doing the bare minimum. My life ground to a screeching halt and I slipped into a(nother) dark place. I thought about ending things too often. A recurring fantasy that started in my childhood. This time was the closest I got.

I stopped working and came off my medication, which was traumatic in itself. I had no hope and the career I’d scrabbled to put together was ending as fast as it arrived.

I didn’t know what my purpose was, or why I was here. A question I’d asked myself multiple times throughout my life but distracted myself with food and alcohol and convincing myself my life was how it was meant to be.

A friend whose advice I hadn’t asked for had repeatedly told me over the years, much to my annoyance, that if I didn’t have a baby I’d regret it when I was older. An irresponsible and unhelpful lecture that I resented her for since our lives couldn’t have been more different. I always shut her down, adamant that she was wrong. But the most recent time she brought it up I didn’t tell her to piss off, instead I questioned whether she was right.

And she was.

Two and a half years later despite every doctor I came across telling me I’d struggle to conceive, my life couldn’t look more different. Here I am encouraging my one year old daughter to laugh at her own farts whilst simultaneously pretending I enjoy baby sensory classes. I’m on my hands and knees three times a day cleaning food from the floor and I regularly sing nursery rhymes at the top of my lungs. I go swimming once a week despite the fact she currently hates it and I take her often to the swings which she loves. I no longer wee alone. Or poo. I spend far too long agonising over how much punctuation to use in messages to new mum friends. I’m convinced the mums from my antenatal class think I’m unhinged when I reply to the messages in our WhatsApp group with either too much enthusiasm!!!!!!!!!

Or none at all.

I stare lovingly at this baby all day and when she’s asleep next to me I miss her so look at photos of her on my phone. I love watching her examine everything she comes across in intricate detail and I look back fondly on the times when I used to try and catch her projectile vomit with my bare hands. I have lengthy conversations about the consistency of her poo and I love watching her fat, flat little feet stomp around getting to know the world. I also love her round little tummy walking into a room before the rest of her body. I love her laugh and I love the fact I can make her laugh more and harder than anyone else. Despite not having had a full nights sleep in over a year I love the fact she sleeps in our bed and I love waking up several times in the night to her foot in my face as she moans until I feed her. I love that her favourite word is ‘bub’. I do not like it when she bites them. I love being her source of comfort and safety. Despite being nervous at the start, I love cooking for her, sharing meals together and watch her explore new foods. I will never forget how repulsed she looked the first time she tried broccoli. Now she eats pretty much everything I put in front of her whilst occasionally throwing some in the dog’s direction, much to my annoyance. I love watching my husband bond with her and navigate his way through fatherhood. I’ve agonised over how to get the balance right between being proud and in awe of her but not too much that I sound smug in front of someone having a tougher time than me. I’ve developed patience I didn’t realise I had that surprises no one more than my husband, who is more jealous of the fact than he’d care to admit. Despite how hard it is, I love it all.

And I don’t recognise myself.

There’s no denying having a baby during a pandemic has been harder and more stressful than anyone could’ve ever imagined. Some days all there was to do was walk the streets, binge watch Selling Sunset and cry. Having to do video calls to introduce the baby to loved ones wasn’t ideal and up until recently we’d barely seen anyone and were mostly alone. Partly because it was the law and partly because I only just recently learnt how to ask for help after having been brought up to think that I don’t need anyone. It’s been incredibly hard. But I also recognise what a huge privilege it is to even be in this position.

I get it now. I understand the burning desire for so many people to have children. And the automatic assumption for many that they will have them. And I can only imagine the pain and heartache of those struggling to conceive. It took me a long time to understand. It also took me a long time to realise that I am entitled to happiness too, however that looks.

This girl looks at me in a way no one has ever looked at me before. With such admiration and complete and utter love. Not once has she had a negative thought about me or my body or criticised the kangaroo pouch that I’ve yet to do something about. She only looks at me with adoration and it’s a feeling I can’t get enough of. While I know she will inevitably look at me unfavourably at some point, I am lapping up the unconditional love, adoring looks and constant need to be attached to me no matter how exhausted I am. Because when I waddle out of the bathroom completely starkers with my lopsided boobs and pubic wilderness, she gazes at me from top to bottom and I have never felt more beautiful and wanted in my entire life.

Most surprisingly of all, she has cleared up all of my pain. Physical and emotional and I am in disbelief. I can walk for miles without passing out. I can stand on my feet for hours. I can run around after her 24/7 without being doubled over in pain. This baby is a complete gift and I am so very grateful.

The last year has taught me so much. About myself, about my life and about what I want. It’s not been without stress or heartache or tears (there have been a LOT of tears) but it’s been the most healing time of my life.

The back ache, sleepless nights, constant self doubt and knackered tits are worth it. Because this beautiful, strong willed, determined, hilarious little girl is the best thing that has ever happened to me.