2011

Something is niggling at me today. It’s that voice in my head. It’s gone very quiet. All the times I relied on it, trusted it, forced myself to relax, (which is an oxymoron but as it turns out, also entirely possible) – And now I feel nothing. No instinct, no gut feeling, no comfort. Just quiet. Was it all in my head? Of course it was – but was it just my subconscious mind willing me to find the positives? Was it just a coping mechanism? Something I constructed myself so it was okay to believe in you? I don’t know. But it bothers me that it’s gone.

To make things worse today is the very first day that no one was able to bring Lachie in to visit. He is my little good luck charm, my inner spirit. And on my instruction Dad won’t be in today or tonight. He’s going to see Lachie because it’s really important to us that he sees one of us each day.

I feel crushed. There is no lifting my spirits today. It’s just you and me inside these four walls and you need me to keep hoping, but for the first time I just can’t drag myself out of the doldrums. The business is officially sold – officially gone as if it never existed – so I suppose I am a bit sad about that too and I have less to keep me occupied today. Plus the thought of never going back to our home now that we sold it is hard. Best case scenario, you and I stay in here and you are born weeks, even months after the big move. Which means I will never go home.

The weekend will bring more visitors, more flowers, more homemade food, and more well-wishers with suggestions of how to pass the time. I am forever grateful for the amazing friends and family that have shown their support for me. For us. So I have that to look forward to. And I’m trying to stay positive today because on top of everything else I don’t want you exposed to any negative energy. Maybe it’s silly, but I feel like you can feel what’s going on out here. Though I don’t want to say it out loud I cannot wait to meet you in person. You feel like quite the little spirit.

Anyway, writing to you has made me feel a little less hopeless. I suppose we’ve been good at lifting each other’s spirits over the last month. So close to 27 weeks, it’s just around the corner. I almost feel like it’s too much to hope for, but each new week gives me exponentially more hope. Little girl, you are amazing. Not even born yet and you are smarter than all the best doctors in the state combined. You have them all in quite a tizz.

I’ve been calling you little one, kiddo, taco, (that’s Dad’s nickname) this whole time. But today I think I’m going to let go a little bit of my fear and insecurity and begin calling you by the name we will give you. Lucy. That feels better.

2014

I watch you at ballet as you study the teacher and copy her every move exactly. You are not the most natural, but certainly the most determined to be a ballerina. Like everything you do in your life you approach ballet with a sense of ownership, as if you were meant to do it. I don’t know where you will end up, but I know it will be exactly where you want it to be. I know you will make your own path, and it will be the one you are destined for.

Today Mr Rabbit Man seems to be a distant memory and you are full of life again. You’ve never walked anywhere, you have always bounced. Your tiny frame makes movement easy, and you are able to scale walls, climb up onto bench tops, perch yourself on shopping trolleys. You never show any fear. I can see now how you this helped you back in the NICU. I’m not sure if you are determined and fearless because of your time in hospital, or if you were inherently so and survived because of it. I’ll never know, and I suppose it doesn’t matter much.

March 12