Before I continue with this post, please know I am quintessentially, unequivocally and indisputably British. With this in mind, when I use the term “wobble” here, I do not mean it in the literal sense, I mean it in the very British sense of “having a moment” or “being upset for a short period of time in amongst feeling positive.”
Today I had a wobble, not whilst purchasing baby clothes, but after I got them home.
I should expand, shouldn’t I?
My hairdresser, who is much more than a hairdresser, leaves for maternity leave the week after next. I have my final appointment with her next Saturday.
This long-suffering woman has been colouring my hair, and being a rather poorly-paid therapist (on account of her clearly fulfilling two job roles in one, not because I’m making a dig at her employers and the wages they pay her, just to clear up any confusion!!) for the last ten years. We originally met when I was a weird 15 year old who had dyed her hair jet black, instantly regretted it, then unsuccessfully tried to lift the colour out of it. She promised me she would make my hair blonde again if it was the last thing she did – and she managed! The miracle-worker she is!!
She has listened to the ups and downs of my life, and I have listened to hers. This woman has become more of a friend than a hairdresser. So, when she announced she was pregnant, I couldn’t have been happier for her.
Today I picked up some gorgeous clothes, bibs etc for her little bundle’s imminent arrival.
Surprisingly, I enjoyed picking out the little blue sleep suits, hats, tiny mittens and socks. I thought, given my current circumstances, I would be really upset doing this. I wasn’t. I was still filled with some of the hope I had yesterday.
Normally this is the point in the story where the author would be dramatic and change course. I’m not going to do that. Things didn’t all come crashing down around me. I just had a wobble.
And that was all it was. A wobble.
I brought the clothes home, and I sat looking at them, coming to the realisation that, yet again, these gorgeous baby clothes were not for my baby, they were for someone else’s. That there would not be a baby in my household to wear the clothes. It would not be me waking up in the middle of the night, eyes bleary, completely exhausted, to experience those tender moments feeding my baby.
But it passed.
The wobble passed.
I didn’t spiral into huge hiccupy sobs.
I didn’t even shed one single, tiny tear.
I took a deep breath, I pushed those sort of thoughts to the back of my mind, and I wrapped the presents.
Out of sight, out of mind.
So to speak, anyway.
Just because I don’t have my bundle of joy yet doesn’t mean everybody else isn’t allowed to have theirs.
Just because sometimes I am unhappy because I am yet to have a successful pregnancy doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for those that do. Particularly those people closest to me who deserve happiness and a healthy baby.
One day it will be me, one day Mr Mad and I will have our mini-Mad and the last thing we would want is for somebody to feel sad because of that.