It has been an age since I blogged about my reason for blogging. Baby sesame is reaching that age where she might start resenting being called a baby. Hers was a fate that launched a thousand blogposts. For without her there would be no momster. Indeed, no spudcaster.
Who am I outside of this little being. Many have remarked on our likeness. We even share the same temperament and impulsivity. She is my muse. Her musings have inspired many a podcast. De Bijbel, my personal quest to find my long lost Zulu ancestor, is a case in point. I am trying to build a window into her past so that she can busy herself with her present, her now, her right here.
People often assume that we are “trying for number two”. There are several things wrong with this ridiculous assertion, aside from the obvious. We tried for number one, and failed. Severally. Severely. I had googled myself pregnant, most memorably on a flight back from Zambia in the searing heat of a December day.
Of course, one doesn’t get to choose the number of zygotes that sequester themselves in one’s womber. So number two, might well be number…uhm two. Then what? I suppose there are platitudes for this circumstance. An acquaintance who, when her daughter was a bubbly teen, discovered she was expecting twins, might attest to this.
That’s the other thing. Why do they call it expecting? For me anyway, I didn’t get even an ounce of the thing I was expecting. It didn’t land on time. I nearly died. There was no instant bond. It was so purple. I felt repulsed that I kept calling it an it in my head. it.
But I digress. The bottom line is that there is nothing expected or self-determinating about pregnancy, childbirth or parenthood. I didn’t expect to have post natal depression, only for my diagnosis to be bumped up two polars. I didn’t expect that I could adore a little creature quite as much as I do. And I certainly didn’t expect the complete paradox of emotions I experience whenever I think about baby sesame.
Expect the unexpected? I will keep trying. Twodles.