So… I made this big announcement about blogging again and then didn’t, you know, blog again. Embarrassing. But, you see, this time I have this whole other reason than the tired old tortured writer thing.
I have a bun in the oven!
Yup. For six long years my oven refused to bake a bun, but now there’s really an honest to goodness bun in there, so I figure I can write about, you know, vomiting and swollen ankles and nipples and stuff. Take a break from Proust and Voltaire and focus on the minutiae of life. Okay, okay so I’ve always focused on the minutiae of life. But this is literal this time. Plus, Marlowe has a lot to say on this baby matter and is keen to get his paws on the keyboard now we’ve gone public with it.
Before Marlowe attempts to reiterate the pecking order in the soon to be updated Michelle-Wells household, I thought I’d start off with a letter I wrote to the little Bun eight weeks ago.
24 Nov 2013
Dear Little Bun
I am four and half weeks pregnant with you. I still don’t quite believe it. I think maybe my tears brought you into being. And now I find myself in this strange place where I’m afraid of every negative thought, of every tiny ache and pain, because you are still so tiny and fragile, and the more years I waited, the more precious you became. And yet, I can feel you. You are undeniable. Your energy is more grounded than mine and I can feel it. I feel I need to be more connected to the animals and the sun and the wind and the rain because that’s what you need, what you like, who you are.
I peed on a stick yesterday, just to confirm to myself that you really are still real and I didn’t dream you up. I have my six week scan the week after next and I bought six pregnancy tests to get through the wait. Don’t be worried, Little Bun, or anxious, it’s just a ritual I made up to help myself be less anxious, less afraid. You’ll come to know that when you’re older, the games we play with ourselves, the rituals we create for our sanity and our dreams. We love rituals, you see. They help anchor us in our dreams and hopes and visions. They connect us to the things we can’t see, but which we know are undeniable, and vital, and sacred.
I can feel you, in my being, Little Bun, and I love you. Already I love you immeasurably. Isn’t that something – that you are not even a centimeter big and I love you already? I did tell you, before you chose to settle in me, that I would have all the love you would ever need to grow and be strong, remember that, Little Bun? It was my incantation to you, my siren song to convince you to finally drop roots and choose me.
I’m glad you did. I’m so very glad you did. Snuggle deep, Little Bun, snuggle well. Mumma loves you.