I feel a little bit naughty. I’m on my own – completely on my own – on my way to London, in the middle of the night. It’s okay, it’s legitimate. Hubby has given me a two-day pass to go to the Mumsnet “Blogfest.”
I also feel a little bit guilty. Like many mums, I don’t feel I have a right to a life away from my family. I feel pathetically grateful to my partner for granting me some time away. I’m not sure I’ll even enjoy it all that much although I know I should make the most of it and let my hair down!
I certainly feel a bit of a fraud. I’m not a great blogger. I’m not even a very regular blogger. And despite my best attempts to look professional for tomorrow, to be honest I look a complete mess. I’m wearing my “trendy” (maybe 25 years ago) ripped jeans and a smart velvet jacket that is too tight over my bump, shrouded for the first cold night of the Scots winter in a down jacket (that also fails to meet in the middle), bright pink gloves and a straggly bobble hat. I’d started to pack into a smart leather overnight bag but it seems – once a mum always a mum – my desire to cover all eventualities necessitated a transfer to a larger, grubbier backpack, water bottle peeking out one side, umbrella the other. There are still traces of poster paint on my arms from this afternoon’s wet weather activity. Add to this a night in a shared cabin on the sleeper train and I’ll be surprised if they let me into the smart glass conference centre at all.
Anyway, I digress. As you can guess, I don’t often get time on my own to think. In fact, pretty much the only time I do get is when I’m picking up or dropping off a car. We don’t own a car; whenever I have to ferry the kids somewhere I borrow one (a car, not a kid) from the local car club. This entails a certain amount of logistical juggling since (I might be supermum but) even I can’t transport two children and two car seats across town to where the nearest club car is parked. So usually, the night before any excursion, I wait until my husband is home from work and the children are in bed, then I head out into the dark, check into the car, drive back and park it outside our house until the morning.
Except I don’t. Not directly. What actually happens is I walk over to the car, check into it, adjust the seat and the mirrors, and then I sit. And think. Wrestle might be a more appropriate term. Where shall I drive to?
Shall I go straight home, maybe be in time to read one last bedtime story, then hunker down on the sofa with some mindless telly and try to forget, for another few hours, what I might have to do in ten days’ time?
Or shall I turn the other way, head out into the dark, along the coast or across the hills, it doesn’t matter, anywhere I can hide away and protect my baby. I know my other kids would be safe. They’ve got warm cosy beds and a doting father who would keep them fed and clothed and happy. They’d miss me. I’d miss them – and my husband – like crazy. But it’s hard to resist the desire to run. I’m constantly in “fight or flight” mode. My body knows my baby is under attack.
You see none of the scans ever brings good news. At best they say “wait and see.” At worst, it will be game over for this baby. I don’t dread having another disabled child – far from it. I would love and nurture it as I have been doing for the last six months. I dread what I have promised to do to that child. To sacrifice it for the sake of the rest of my family. If I don’t go to the scans, I can’t keep that promise. And now there are only ten days left until the next one.
I tried to talk about my fears on a Facebook support group. About how I hate the waiting so much I would almost rather have the abortion now than wait for the next scan, and then the next. How I feel I don’t deserve to have a healthy baby anyway, because of what I’ve agreed to. How every afternoon, when Jackie is at nursery, I sit at the kitchen table and cry because I feel so trapped I don’t know what else to do. How I’m becoming a shadow of a mother and a wife because I’m too tired from battling my own thoughts to do anything other than watch Cbeebies. When the first comment came back: “How dare you talk like that? Don’t you know how lucky you are? Pull yourself together…” I deleted the post in shame. They’re right, of course. I have two lovely children. I have a fertile body that has made another. I have the luxury of choice. I have made my bed and I must lie in it.
I tried to talk to my husband about adoption. He says we can’t, because once we see the baby we will love it and want to keep it. He’s right, of course. But me, I’ve already “seen” this baby with my body. For six months I’ve unwittingly got to know it. I know the shape of its head. I know where it’s feet are. I know when it likes to rest and when it likes to have a good old rummage around. Despite myself, I have an inkling what sex it is and what I’d like to call it.
I never do it. Every time – I’ve lost count of how many – I blink, turn the radio up loud, and turn the wheel for home. Back to my warm house and my loving husband and my beautiful children. I can’t risk all that for this little soul that I carry with me everywhere. I can’t tear the rest of my family apart. On Sunday I will get back on the train, the day train this time, and be home in time for tea.