A Not So Turkish Life

Morning, morning

The sun’s just risen, the morning fog which daily masks the Bosphorus in its cloud is lifting, G’s left for work already and M is sleeping, spread-eagled in the centre of our bed, pillows standing guard either side.

I don’t feel great this morning, that pregnancy queasy-there’s-someone-else-in-my-tummy-draining-my-body thing. It’s ok, I don’t mind this feeling – it will pass and with its passing, we’ll be gifted a new baby inshallah. A new being to nourish and love and to teach. It’s a big test having children; a test of the most heavenly kind. There’s a nursery rhyme in a collection of M’s and it talks of angels hands stroking baby’s faces, brushing their cheeks as they fly by on their way to our arms. It’s beautiful, that image. Angels hands carrying our children to us. It’s no wonder the weight is heavy when your gift comes straight from God.

Now we know Bump is a boy, the excitement is building–there are names to be chosen, sleeping decisions to be made, family visits to be scheduled/postponed and our minds to prepare. And now it’s so real, now we know baby is a boy, I’m thinking about labour, about fear of a repeat, about something going wrong about how I can be Mum to M while recovering from something going wrong, about who will look after M and feeling guilty for having to leave my little boy without either of us for a night, maybe two. I know this will pass. I know that even if something does goes wrong during birth, if a c-section beings us our baby we’ll be blessed and so happy. I know that even if M is upset, mad for a while, that’s pass when we hold him, when we pick him back up. I know he’ll be left with people who are capable of providing his care, showering him with love and I know he’ll be less than an hour away. Practicalities of Bumps’ birth and M’s care, I know that will sort, know it will all be ok; it’s the fear that I struggle with and the guilt of M’s birth. I need to revisit it, to rewrite out what happened, to set it all down in full. My head needs the therapy of sharing, of letting go of the emotions through my fingers to the page and I will, one day soon. I’ll sit down at this laptop let the angels push the buttons, help catharsism of my soul.

But right now, it’s a beautiful morning. My son’s about to stir and my coffee’s almost done. I’ll scoop him up in all his warmth hold him close and breathe him in. In the end, that’s all that matters and as he makes the beeline I know he will for the dish of strawberries on the table and giggles with delight as he swallows them down I’ll look down at him and realise that none of the other stuff matters at all.

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than anyone knows.

George MacDonald

This entry was published on 02/22/2012 at 06:22. It’s filed under Baby 'n' Me, Externalise, Pregnancy and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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