Today has just been plain odd. Didn't wake up in the best of moods and was short with Little A at breakfast. Didn't feel great about that. And I'm getting bored of cornflakes. My head has been like an untuned wireless most of the day flitting from one nanosecond thought to the next. And it's been soooo hot. A big truck arrived and towed away crumpled 'mummy car'. Little A gazed on excitedly repeating her new word 'mash', 'mash' (translated - smash). It's going to be a write off, I just know it. Inconvenienced.
Most of the day I've just wanted to cry. The tears have been queuing up and I can feel their enthusiastic pleas behind my sockets but the doorman policing my eyes won't let them in. Come out! I want to have a good sob. I think I'm feeling quite sorry for myself. Don't want to but hey <sigh>. Looked in the mirror the other day and all I could see was open pores, grey hairs and whiskers on my chin. I'm starting to look like one of Macbeth's witches; just in time for Halloween.
And then there is my post birth stomach overhang. Mission 'rescue tummy' has proven a challenge since Little A came along. I walk, swim, do occasional yoga but nothing like the amounts of exercise I did BLA (before Little A). I tried some tai chi the other night but to my dismay and frustration I'd forgotten some of the movements and found myself strangely ad libbing. To digress an intsy wintsy bit here I have this habit of asking for a 'tai chi latte' (instead of 'chai') whenever I fancy a cuppa at the local coffee house. The barista politely says nothing.
Anyways my tummy over hang constantly brings me into touch with my cesarean scar. I don't have a good relationship with it. I don't really like looking at it or touching it. We are not buddies. This I realise is not a great state of affairs. No wonder I've let myself go. Maybe I should try talking to the scar; perhaps I should give it a name. For some bizarre reason 'Sorry' comes to mind. Maybe Sorry is sorry it came to be here. Okay then here's an attempt to communicate with Sorry. White flag at the ready .....
I have to be honest I'm not mightily impressed at how you came to graffiti my lower abdomen. You aren't even an artistic masterpiece. You're just this scrawny red line. You've ruined my tummy. GO AWAY. Oh this isn't going very well. Deep breath. You are a constant reminder of the birth that wasn't to be. A birth that was invasive, painful and ended in the compromising of my stomach to rescue a baby in distress. A reminder of how vulnerable and frightened I felt on being rushed into the operating theatre. But still you are the imperfect entrance by which Little A transversed into this world and changed our lives forever. You symbolise a before and after, an irrevocable change and literally mark a sacrificial passage into motherhood.
I'm feeling a little warmer towards you Sorry but only a little. Tonight I might try patting you before I close my eyes. I'm trying, really trying to kiss and make up with you but for now this will have to do. I am tired and my duvet beckons.
Yours, Older Mum.
...... and a tear fell.