Knowing that as each week passed & the life within me was growing, I relished celebrating that life with a bump picture, a ritual I am glad I persevered with till the end. Being able to view my journey through those images is the good of my journey.
With the progression of the pregnancy came the bad, I was suddenly thrown into the mucky world of office politics. I had just started my new job when I found out I was pregnant and I went from being a carefree, fresh out of college employee to one who had to watch every move I made in order not to arouse suspicion that I might be pregnant. Well probation or not, my extreme morning sickness soon made it impossible to conceal. That was a scary time for me. Luckily, I had a very understanding boss & also the UK has one of the best maternity laws in the world so I was covered on both ends. It didn’t stop people treating me different, less competent.
I however persevered and worked up until pelvic girdle pain started to encroach on my life. From that point on it seemed to get worse, some days I could barely walk. I coped as best I could but a diagnosis of Gestational Diabetes dropped me further into self-pity (http://theprincesspoetslifeadventures.blogspot.com/2011/03/week-32-i-have-what.html). Suddenly my pregnancy & birth was not to be the idyllic journey I imagined it would be. I ended up needing to be induced & ended up with an emergency caesarean. Despite all this I still feel like I had a positive birth.
The moment I met my son would forever be implanted on my memory, his warm delicious skin next to mine like we always belonged together. (http://theprincesspoetslifeadventures.blogspot.com/2011/05/ethans-birth-story.html) During our skin to skin, Ethan stopped breathing. He just stopped. My world stopped too. Suddenly he was taken off me to be resuscitated. That moment I knew the ugly truth about motherhood. The love you feel for your child is entwined with heinous guilt should anything bad happen to them. I blamed myself for not noticing that he had stopped suckling. Thankfully, Ethan is thriving but that memory remains. The lesson forever imprinted on my heart.
Bio: You can follow Lucy's Life adventures at http://theprincesspoetslifeadventures.blogspot.com
follow her on twitter @pinkpoetlikeme
Mother knows best, right? Whoever said that should be slapped for failing to answer the question, “Which one?”
I always knew becoming a mother would affect my relationship with my birth mother and my mother-in-law. In my naiveté and insecurity in attempting motherhood for the first time in my life, I assumed it would bring us all closer. I imagined an on-call army of mommy-specialists with whom to commiserate, from whom I could ask help, and up to whom I could look up as inspiration.
I’d be remiss if I said none of these dreams came true, but it hasn’t exactly been the blue-skied picnic I was hoping for.
Having a mutual grandchild has brought my two mothers—one by birth and the other by law—from their forked-tongued rivalry to a Coliseum-esque dance of death. My birth mother is the quintessential tiger mom who raised four children alone in economic hardship. My mother-in-law is a flowery Chatty Cathy who cheers when her youngest son brings home a C- in art class and lives between three lavish houses brimming with lacey, luxurious junk. I’m surprised that the day they met, the earth didn’t crater beneath their feet to form a battle arena from which only one, by fire or ice, would emerge alive.
Needless to say, this past Mother’s Day was an awkward affair. I never liked the idea of being the third mother for a quiet dinner in a (public) restaurant. The dads—an insufferable lot who get along better than beer and bratwurst—agreed to go to smooth things over. It didn’t work. Let’s just say that the topic of parabens came into conversation and my mother—the environmental expert—and my mother-in-law—the buy-everything-that-looks-pretty-in-a-bottle expert—began to brandish their silverware. I thought “accidentally” spilling my glass of juice onto my dress—an unfortunate casualty of war—would draw their attention enough, but then they began arguing about how best to remove stains with the ferocity most people reserve for politics.
Somehow, we finished our fare without a fork ending up in anyone’s eye. For whatever reason, we agreed to head back to send the babysitter home and then watch the stars from our balcony. After we pulled into the driveway, both of my mothers caught sight of the peonies blooming in my garden.
Their animosity suddenly forgotten, my two mothers snuggled up next to the peonies and began cooing at the velvety, pink petals. For the first time that night, they looked like sisters, and we spent the rest of the evening in silence, awed by the stars overhead.
I sent them each home with a blossom in their graying hair. I looked at my own child that night and wondered, with a heavy sigh, if I would ever stand in the mommy battle arena.
