This weekend marked our last one as 3.
Lots of things are happening in the coming week(s).
I'm starting to get the dull, hazed, clumsy look of a pregnant woman now. It's as if a switch has been turned on (or off, really) in my brain. I'm clumsier now, more cumbersome. I'm walking slower, getting more Braxton Hicks (I call it the "bowling ball belly", because it feels like someone is stretching my skin over a bowling ball), and my hands, feet and face seem to be getting puffier. I get more out of breath when I run around after L, and it's frustrating. I know I should be relaxing, but if you know me, you know that that's a really hard thing to ask me to do.
He took a picture of me and L in the park this weekend, and holy shit, I look like I ate another person. He says I look beautiful, bless him, but I think it's because he's afraid I'll sit on him and break him in half. I feel so attractive and healthy and glowing... as long as I don't pass a mirror.
We went to the park. We did finger-painting. We had snacks. We hugged. We did IKEA-building (well, he did, really.). We organised. We cleaned. We laughed. We played. I had a few emotional-pregnant-lady meltdowns, but nothing that wasn't solved with a piece of chocolate and a hug.
It was a beautiful, poignant moment as a gang of three, before the new round of chaos, family and emotional whirlwinds.
I savoured every single second of it.
Sunday 17 April 2011
Friday 15 April 2011
Adoration: Part 2
When I was young, I imagined him to be like my father. Tall, dark hair, funny, loving and kind.
In highschool, I had my fair share of boyfriends (though I use the term loosely because nowadays the stuff that kids do together is so much more, umm, sophisticated than what happened then). Two of them were my first serious crushes.
At college, I fell madly in love. Or, what I thought was love at that very young age. But whatever it was, it affected me pretty badly. Both in good ways and in destructive ways.
I moved to New York City when I was 22, to live the life of a singer/actress/waitress and then subsequently fashion journalist. I met and dated lots of men/boys along the way, most of them were good guys, but didn't tick all the boxes. I still had an idea in my head of what I wanted, and preferably, I wanted him to be British. Why? No idea. I just felt like I was destined to live there. Somehow. A small part was probably this thing I had for Colin Firth/Christian Bale, and I thought the perfect guy would have everything that I had wanted when I was a young girl, plus live in a country that I had always dreamed about. That was my perfect, and my friends always made fun of me for being so picky.
I met a guy. We had a long relationship. He was a good guy. Did he do "it" for me? Not entirely. But I got married because, well, that's what you do when you're with someone for 4 years, right?
Mistake. We both knew it.
Luckily, after a year of torturing ourselves in the marriage, we both recognised that we needed to split. And though it felt pretty bleak at the time, it made me who I am today. It happened for a reason. It placed me in a perfect spot on that evening in June, 2005, when I went out to a work dinner for my new job.
I met him. Him. He was it. I knew it. Very tall, achingly handsome, funny (and, yes, British)...and I felt like I knew him from somewhere, oddly. Really knew him. I shook his hand, and the rest of the evening became a blur of smiles, conversations, drinks and what ifs...
3 months later, we talked about marriage.
8 months later, he proposed.
10 months later, we were married.
Not a day goes by where I don't get butterflies when I see him walk down the street to greet me, with that cat-like, long stride of his. He still kisses me the same way, after almost 6 years together, like he did when we were dating. I love the way he looks at me from across the room, head cocked to the side, like he's trying to memorize that star-like freckle on my cheek. He still places his hand on exactly that spot on my lower back that he knows will make me blush.
I took this picture the other day, and through the tears filling my eyes, I was radiating with so much happiness over what our love story created.
I found him.
And through him, I found her.
In highschool, I had my fair share of boyfriends (though I use the term loosely because nowadays the stuff that kids do together is so much more, umm, sophisticated than what happened then). Two of them were my first serious crushes.
At college, I fell madly in love. Or, what I thought was love at that very young age. But whatever it was, it affected me pretty badly. Both in good ways and in destructive ways.
I moved to New York City when I was 22, to live the life of a singer/actress/waitress and then subsequently fashion journalist. I met and dated lots of men/boys along the way, most of them were good guys, but didn't tick all the boxes. I still had an idea in my head of what I wanted, and preferably, I wanted him to be British. Why? No idea. I just felt like I was destined to live there. Somehow. A small part was probably this thing I had for Colin Firth/Christian Bale, and I thought the perfect guy would have everything that I had wanted when I was a young girl, plus live in a country that I had always dreamed about. That was my perfect, and my friends always made fun of me for being so picky.
I met a guy. We had a long relationship. He was a good guy. Did he do "it" for me? Not entirely. But I got married because, well, that's what you do when you're with someone for 4 years, right?
Mistake. We both knew it.
Luckily, after a year of torturing ourselves in the marriage, we both recognised that we needed to split. And though it felt pretty bleak at the time, it made me who I am today. It happened for a reason. It placed me in a perfect spot on that evening in June, 2005, when I went out to a work dinner for my new job.
I met him. Him. He was it. I knew it. Very tall, achingly handsome, funny (and, yes, British)...and I felt like I knew him from somewhere, oddly. Really knew him. I shook his hand, and the rest of the evening became a blur of smiles, conversations, drinks and what ifs...
3 months later, we talked about marriage.
8 months later, he proposed.
10 months later, we were married.
Not a day goes by where I don't get butterflies when I see him walk down the street to greet me, with that cat-like, long stride of his. He still kisses me the same way, after almost 6 years together, like he did when we were dating. I love the way he looks at me from across the room, head cocked to the side, like he's trying to memorize that star-like freckle on my cheek. He still places his hand on exactly that spot on my lower back that he knows will make me blush.
I took this picture the other day, and through the tears filling my eyes, I was radiating with so much happiness over what our love story created.
I found him.
And through him, I found her.
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Adoration
L is a bit fickle.
Unlike her father and myself, she likes her own space and isn't very touchy-feely. It tortures me sometimes, because we'll shower every part of her with kisses and she seems indifferent to it, and sometimes actively pushes us away if we're in "her space".
She's also quite tough on herself. If she falls and skins her knee on the pavement, she'll pick herself back up, kisses her hand with a "mwahhh" sound (as if to kiss the pain away by kissing her own hand), and runs off. If I ask her "are you okay?" she'll nod and say "yeah".
She does realise if she's hurt us (she's going through a hitting phase) and when she's scolded, because she says "sorry" and makes these sad eyes that break my heart into pieces, and then gives hugs and kisses, so I do know that she has a tender side to her.
I'm constantly amazed and equally confused as to who this little person is. She's a little like me in her open-mouthed wonder at little things, and a little like her father in her intensity. But 90% of her is completely unique and different, and independent. It makes me realise how quickly time passes in front of my eyes, and how I'm chasing her ever-increasing-in-height shadow down the path.
Yesterday afternoon, after being in the park all day in the sunshine, she was exhausted, so I sat her down on the rug and put on a favourite movie of hers and curled up behind her. If I'm honest, it was less of a way to calm her down and let her decompress before bedtime and more of a ploy for me to get in some time just watching her.
I curled up, making a C-shape behind her, whilst she sat in front of me by my chest, legs crossed, turning her head to smile at me every once in a while.
I let myself soak in the shape of her long limbs, the translucence of her pale skin showing her veins, the length of her eyelashes, the golden colour of her hair that shows just a hint of strawberry. I ran my hands down her back, amazed that it's not as tiny as I remember it to be. I wanted her to put her hand on my head, or my arm, and just stop fidgeting for a moment, wanting her to adore me like I do her. I know it'll come in time, but for now, I have to be sneaky and find these moments, where she's mine, all mine. And I get a second to worship her.
Unlike her father and myself, she likes her own space and isn't very touchy-feely. It tortures me sometimes, because we'll shower every part of her with kisses and she seems indifferent to it, and sometimes actively pushes us away if we're in "her space".
She's also quite tough on herself. If she falls and skins her knee on the pavement, she'll pick herself back up, kisses her hand with a "mwahhh" sound (as if to kiss the pain away by kissing her own hand), and runs off. If I ask her "are you okay?" she'll nod and say "yeah".
She does realise if she's hurt us (she's going through a hitting phase) and when she's scolded, because she says "sorry" and makes these sad eyes that break my heart into pieces, and then gives hugs and kisses, so I do know that she has a tender side to her.
I'm constantly amazed and equally confused as to who this little person is. She's a little like me in her open-mouthed wonder at little things, and a little like her father in her intensity. But 90% of her is completely unique and different, and independent. It makes me realise how quickly time passes in front of my eyes, and how I'm chasing her ever-increasing-in-height shadow down the path.
Yesterday afternoon, after being in the park all day in the sunshine, she was exhausted, so I sat her down on the rug and put on a favourite movie of hers and curled up behind her. If I'm honest, it was less of a way to calm her down and let her decompress before bedtime and more of a ploy for me to get in some time just watching her.
I curled up, making a C-shape behind her, whilst she sat in front of me by my chest, legs crossed, turning her head to smile at me every once in a while.
I let myself soak in the shape of her long limbs, the translucence of her pale skin showing her veins, the length of her eyelashes, the golden colour of her hair that shows just a hint of strawberry. I ran my hands down her back, amazed that it's not as tiny as I remember it to be. I wanted her to put her hand on my head, or my arm, and just stop fidgeting for a moment, wanting her to adore me like I do her. I know it'll come in time, but for now, I have to be sneaky and find these moments, where she's mine, all mine. And I get a second to worship her.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
37. Tick tock.
It's starting to feel very real.
It's sinking in how lucky I am to have been blessed with a handsome husband who's my running partner in this crazy ridiculous adventure, lucky to have a healthy and very happy little girl that constantly says "mama" with pure adoration, lucky to have a job, a house, some pocket money to spend. I never want to take any of this for granted.
This pregnancy has flown by, and though I've stopped to take it all in, take in each little swirl of anticipation and fear and joy, take in how amazing I feel and how much I've loved this second time around even more, take in each kick and stretch that the little one does in its little place under my ribs... the time is unforgiving in how quickly it passes.
L is growing so quickly and constantly testing my patience lately, and like every mother, I worry that I let my frustration and impatience eclipse the amazing feeling of her little hand touching mine. It won't be so little and pudgy forever. I need to remember that. In the chaos that is about to erupt in our house in a few weeks, I need to remember that L will always have her place as my first. My beautiful, independent little girl. My baby. The one that had a bit of a rough start in the world the first couple days, but managed to kick ass and take names. My little travelling companion that never tires of looking out the window on a road trip.
My life, our life, seems to be exploding in each direction at the moment: business, toddler, travel, baby, finding a bigger house.. and we perversely thrive on that kind of energy. But there are moments where we have very little left to give and have to dig really deep to find some light and laughter. It's there, I know it. It just needs a bit of a nudge to bring it to the surface.
Maybe if I remember how much I need to be thankful for, and how to breathe in these beautiful moments... maybe, just maybe, I'll find a way to slow the ticking clock a little bit. Can't hurt to try.
It's sinking in how lucky I am to have been blessed with a handsome husband who's my running partner in this crazy ridiculous adventure, lucky to have a healthy and very happy little girl that constantly says "mama" with pure adoration, lucky to have a job, a house, some pocket money to spend. I never want to take any of this for granted.
This pregnancy has flown by, and though I've stopped to take it all in, take in each little swirl of anticipation and fear and joy, take in how amazing I feel and how much I've loved this second time around even more, take in each kick and stretch that the little one does in its little place under my ribs... the time is unforgiving in how quickly it passes.
L is growing so quickly and constantly testing my patience lately, and like every mother, I worry that I let my frustration and impatience eclipse the amazing feeling of her little hand touching mine. It won't be so little and pudgy forever. I need to remember that. In the chaos that is about to erupt in our house in a few weeks, I need to remember that L will always have her place as my first. My beautiful, independent little girl. My baby. The one that had a bit of a rough start in the world the first couple days, but managed to kick ass and take names. My little travelling companion that never tires of looking out the window on a road trip.
My life, our life, seems to be exploding in each direction at the moment: business, toddler, travel, baby, finding a bigger house.. and we perversely thrive on that kind of energy. But there are moments where we have very little left to give and have to dig really deep to find some light and laughter. It's there, I know it. It just needs a bit of a nudge to bring it to the surface.
Maybe if I remember how much I need to be thankful for, and how to breathe in these beautiful moments... maybe, just maybe, I'll find a way to slow the ticking clock a little bit. Can't hurt to try.
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