It is 4 years since I tried to push my son out of my (then in tact) vagina, in our cosy, dimly lit 2 up 2 down bedroom, until a woman eating a Gregg’s pasty arrived with an ambulance and carted me off to hospital. I still to this day don’t know who she was or why she was in our bedroom at such a private time, but several eye witnesses confirm that it wasn’t a pain induced or sleep deprived hallucination. There was a stranger in our bedroom, with pasty in hand, probably the most inappropriate item to bring to a woman in the fully-dilated throws of labour. Part of me hopes when she is in labour, a stranger arrives at her bedside with a sheesh kebab. Karma.
My beautiful boy, born with a frown and a look of ‘put me back in’, took to my breast within minutes. My husband repeating “it’s a boy! Its a boy!” as if talking to a deaf or mentally unwell woman with a brain deterioration issue, because I was so smacked out of my head on pethidine it seemed appropriate to him to connect with me as such. Little did my rock of a partner know (all hail Him) I was there mentally, I’d just lost use of my legs and couldn’t string a sentence or show emotion, my feelings were euphoric, and he, my son, felt completely familiar. He had been kicking hell of of me for months, setting fire to my heart, and weighing so much I felt like my nether regions resembled a baboon on heat.
1 day short of 4 years later and my half-asleep frowning boy barges into our hotel room, where we live temporarily until we to move to a new apartment in our new city, Bangkok. He squints into the light, “Mamma!”. I carry him back to his bedroom, soothe him back to sleep, kiss his head, snuggle him in, whisper “get comfy baby”, “I am comfy!” He replies, factually.
He is my world, he is my everything, my hopes, my joy, my reason, my boy.