Seasons of Love

I’ve recently been thinking about transitions. 

In the Motherhood Uncensored compendium I wrote about learning to transition into being a mother. Not just one alone anymore, but two, and then three.

Now, surrounded by autumnal change I have been reminded that I am again in a state of change. 

This led me to write the piece below, reflecting on how my children don’t need me as much as they once did, and how I am trying to navigate that.

When I was contemplating this introduction, I was walking with my dog, and I met another woman doing the same. She was pregnant with her first baby and due that very day. We had a wonderful chat, including about her hypnobirthing sessions, and I was able to advise her on things that had helped me during my births and afterwards, which she was happy to hear. 

So maybe that’s my role now. To impart my positive experiences, to reassure new mothers that the path ahead can be bumpy, with surprises along the way, but if you go with the flow, walk with nature and don't fight against it, it'll all be okay. My second son’s amazing hypnobirth is included in The Little Book of Positive Birth Stories, by Clare Fulton.

I am approaching the end of my reproductive life, something my womb accepts but my heart doesn't yet.  My sister reminded me that it isn’t a new baby I want, but the chance to hold my own as littlies once again. 

I find myself searching for new ways to nurture. The poem Baby Lure reflects my need to still create, by making or growing something, but I am reminded this doesn’t have to be about babies. I can still create and give life in other ways.

Seasons of Love

Golden leaves crunch under my feet as I walk the path I often take. A grateful dog beside me, but no buggy, no plea for the swings, no tiny hand holding mine.

I’m in a different season now.

My life has changed from the wintery depths of baby blues, from the uplifting, toddling summer days, to a transitional autumn, sometimes bright, sometimes dark, with many ups and many downs. Some leaves remain while acorns fall, like little eggs, scattered carelessly on the ground. I give away hope every month, every year. 

The urge to procreate is as strong as the first time. The time I cried in the garden centre, a year before I was first pregnant – ‘Shh, baby’s dreaming,’ read the sign that told me I was ready. The time, hungover, I shed a tear at the sight of a restaurant highchair, aching for a baby. It's returned.

Cries for Mummy no longer haunt my nights. I'm the one asking for hugs now. No little rocks are pressed into my palm; I hear no delighted squeals at the sight of a passing snail, yet their laughter does still ring through my house, less innocent but still joyful. Sometimes I crave the silence knowing one day that is all I’ll have left.

But the conversations are deeper. The advice, my experiences – although not often wanted – are valid and hopefully helpful. I still provide warmth, food, love but it's in car journeys, clean uniform, reminders for this and that.

Fewer toys scatter my landscape, replaced with cables and homework and a scent of Lynx. They’re in their new season too. They still need guidance but there are no climbing frames to navigate – their obstacles are different, but no less challenging.

And of course as I adjust to this new season, learning to nurture and mother and create in different ways, time will keep going and the seasons will keep changing. I will always be a mother and always transitioning to a new stage of motherhood.

Baby Lure

Tight little fists and chubby thighs,

deep blue pools of staring eyes…

the urge to nurture still so raw,

making my womb ache for more.

But age and circumstance say no.

Selfish is not the way to go.

I must follow a different path –

Something else to ignite my heart.

I will create something new.

Poems, stories, words of truth.

Magic woven from my soul, my heart.

I will give myself to art.

From my body my words will flow.

Creative fruits will flourish and grow.

Committed to paper by ink or pen.

Never will I ache again.

And when future babies come anew

-born from the stories my children grew -

I will hold them close to me

and pour on love, nurturingly.

Then when this mother makes old bones,

transmogrifying into crone,

I will have them learn by heart

the whispered words of grandma art.