If I had a penny (or Euro cent... need to get used to this!!) for every time someone told me I was brave to move country with a toddler and so close to the birth of my second child... well, I'd have a few more pounds to my name than I do. I did what I had to do and just got on with it. It was this or miss out on the valuable support system in those first few months of Squiggle's life, which I thought would have been silly.
However, with approximately seven short weeks of pregnancy left, things are becoming intense. Months ago, knowing that I had about five weeks to prepare for this baby once the container arrived with our belongings from the UK seemed enough. But when you're this close to those last five weeks and you're worn out and so constantly uncomfortable that you can barely get any sleep and Braxton Hicks don't quite stop reminding you of what's imminent, it doesn't seem like much time at all any longer.
And yet I feel that it hasn't yet dawned on me that I'll soon have a newborn. The kicks are real (you want to watch that video!!), we have finally settled on a name for Squiggle, and we marvel at the way he reacts to Emily's voice and her very touch on my belly... And yet, it's all fuzzy as if embedded in a cloud light years away.
Then I realise that by this time last pregnancy, all Emily's clothes were washed and waiting in her perfectly planned nursery, my hospital bag was packed (and had been unpacked and repacked several times), NCT classes were well under way, the Moses basket was waiting for her arrival. I had daily visual reminders. This time, so far, nothing.
And as much as it started out much easier than my last pregnancy, this one is ending very differently. So a part of me just wants the discomfort to end. I wish this baby would decide it's fine to be born really early (as long as he's healthy and all that), but the other part of me kicks that first part because I cannot be thinking it. I need time to prepare for this baby. I need to find some time to allow it to feel real. To go through the preparations, the nesting, the caring, the excitement. Because thus far, I feel a little bit like a surrogate mother. And apart from the fact that it hurts me on a level I can barely begin to understand let alone explain, I feel like I owe this little boy quite a bit more than that.
Ten days to the estimated arrival date of our belongings... Come on, we can do this.
This blog is now closed. The story continues over on Flip Flops and Flying Carpets.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for reading.