I’m going home. Home to be with Lachie. Home to be with your Dad. Home to see my home again, my pets, my family. Home without you.
It’s difficult to put it into words. It’s a wonderful thing to be going home. And yet I feel empty. I can’t explain it to you, I hope I never have to. I am convincing myself it will be okay, I will come back to visit you every day. I will write to you daily. But I’ll be going home without you. I can’t get my head around what that will mean.
The doctors warned me that this part would be very difficult. That most mothers feel devastated to leave the hospital without their baby. I don’t feel that way. I’m looking forward to breathing in fresh air every day. To having people around me again. To being Lachie’s mother. I know this is the right thing too. I know this is where you have to be right now. It’s not in my nature to question what is. But still, I feel empty. Numb. Like I’m the star of a movie about someone else’s life. This whole experience has been surreal. Every minute of it from the moment I was wheeled out of that scan.
We went up to see you before we left. I couldn’t stay long, I didn’t want to touch you while this strange energy was exuded from my body. I’m not sure how this will work and I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. I just need a minute in my real life to remember who I am. But I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll sing to you again.
But as I leave you, as I turned to have one last look, the voice was back and he said “Don’t worry. She will be okay.” It was something.
You have taken to jumping a lot lately. You bounce off the energy in the room like music notes in the grand finale of an opera. Like your life is leading to something huge and exciting. Your brother is very serious, and does things deliberately and intelligently. You are a butterfly on a wisp of a breeze, floating through life with the anticipation of things to come. This leads to many disagreements with your Dad and I, as well as with Lachie. But we discipline you with a smile in our eyes because you do everything with such charm it’s difficult not to be smiling when we are near you. A ‘fun loving attitude’ your teacher calls it. On the whole I am more like your brother. More serious. Craving facts and information. You crave sunlight and joy, and your tiny frame seems to float everywhere you take it. It occurs to me at times that I will have to be more careful with the way I parent you, because we are so different.
Today you told me you are going to marry George from pre school. I smiled to myself, but not for the reason you think. When you come so close to losing a child the very thought of any milestones is heartwarming in a way I never realised possible. One day, you will be grown. You will have the opportunity to do whatever you want with your life. It reminds me how far we’ve come and I relish the thought of the road we have yet to travel.
I sang you to sleep tonight as I do every night. You drifted off on my favourite words and I hope they colour your dreams tonight.
“One of these mornings
You’re gonna rise up singing
Then you’ll spread your wings
And you’ll take to the sky-high
But till that morning
There ain’t nothing can harm you
With Mummy and Daddy standing by
So hush little baby, don’t you cry…”