4.

My writing has been slow recently because at the moment I’m not glowing. Not even a little bit. My skin appears to have developed scales, dry and peeling, and the cold that’s zapped through my body is leaving me in a mangled mess of self pity and snot. I’m also reliving the story of the princess and the pea in which my wonderful memory foam mattress feels like its made of stone and I can feel every last crumb that finds its way inside the bed.

Whilst you read my next more heart-felt post, just imagine that I am currently sat here stuffing a tasteless peanut butter flavoured ice cream down my throat, whilst staring in disgust at its immediate appearance on my hips and thighs….Oh the joys of growing my little sprog.

The Man behind the Camera

There are moments when I just want to strangle him. All sense is replaced by blind frustration and anger, and of course, it’s all his fault. Then the mist fades and he’s an absolute God in my eyes, and I’m sorry.

I realise that my writings so far have revolved purely around my baby and I or my art, my baby and I. It’s seemingly obvious to state that I wouldn’t be in this situation without him. But nor could I go through this transition without him either. There are many books about pregnancy, even ones written by men for men. Pregnancy can leave a women so self-absorbed, you’re the one who bears and births the child, goes through the pains and sickness and so he couldn’t possible understand how tired your are or what you are going through. He’s the dependable chair, or shopping trolley, or whatever else it is that you need for support. What the books fail to mention is that he is shitting his pants a whole lot more than you. That no he’s not carrying the baby, so he doesn’t have that instant bond or connection. And that the baby at this point, is just an abstract idea to him. He is aware that your body is changing and he is going to have to watch you go through what could be a terribly traumatic ordeal at the birth and he is also aware that his life is about to change dramatically. But it’s actually quite difficult to imagine the thoughts and worries streaming through his mind whilst you nag, complain and moan about every grumble, heart burn and headache, cry at every new blemish on your body, or laugh at every tiny wiggle and kick that he can’t yet see or feel. So despite my useless screams at the man who’s gone out and drowned his worries in many a beer, I do try to understand the need to get away from it sometimes. From me and my disgustingly snotty nose.

At the moment he’s not my husband, but he’s my partner, my best friend and the father of my child. He’s someone that supports my art without probably ever understanding my ideas thoroughly or my reasons why. He’s someone that dropped his life as he knew it to follow me across the world, to an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar language and people to set up a home there. Then followed me back when we needed to. He’s the only man I’ve relinquished control with, given him my camera and taken a step back. And so he’s the only one I’d want by my side to bring our child into the world.

Which is a good job really, as it’s a bit late to take a U-turn now. And so I must move onwards and outwards. Waddling down the long path into motherhood.

And as you can imagine, I did finish that (half) tub of ice cream.