15 years ago I became a mother
No one told me about motherhood, not even my mother. I didn't have friends that were mothers, actually I didn't really have friends at all, living in Antigua at 24 pregnant and mostly alone. I didn't go to antenatal classes or have the internet to read about it. I had a digital camera with which I took a total of 2 pictures of myself pregnant. So, when finally back in the UK, and my waters broke and I thought I’d just wee’d myself (because that's probably just what happens when you become a mother, a lifetime of incontinence), I had everything to learn.
Yesterday, my kid turned 15, and even more so than my own birthday, the birthday of my kid makes me take a real hard look at everything.
(TW this email eludes to domestic violence)
16 years ago I grew a baby in my tummy in Antigua, the baby of a man who raised his fists and his voice too much. But I wasn’t scared, partly because I knew nothing of birth or motherhood, and partly because I hoped that once I had this baby, my life would start to make more sense, and because I knew no matter what I could keep him safe.
I’ve done a lot of running in these 15 years. A large chunk of my life as a parent was about surviving. 3am ‘adventures’ to Mc Donalds in our pyjamas to stay safe, night rides on mopeds to mates houses for surprise sleepovers, we have huddled behind bushes in fields with snakes in, hushed whispers while headlights search. And we have moved and moved and run and willed and hoped and dreamt big beautiful dreams. But as I look back at photos of the last 15 years I can see now, more than anything, how much magic I have conjured over those years despite everything. From climbing out of our tiny window in our temporary housing onto the roof so we could make a bbq on the ledge, to trips and moves and new beginnings, how deep I dug to get it right, how much sadness turned into joy, to make it magical in a way maybe only mothers can ever know.
But every year as my kids' birthday approached I would feel the weight of it creeping nearer. 15 years ago I became a mother and historically my periods would stop 2 months before his birthday. The strain and weight and loneliness of this day would be almost unbearable. The pressure I put on myself to make it special and the guilt I carried for being in this mess made the months leading up to it long and fraught.
We moved a lot and his birthday falling in the first week of a new school year meant that many birthdays were spent without friends. Our first one in London, living in temporary accommodation, still reeling from our escape and arrival in the UK, I lurked around the playground trying desperately to make eye contact with other Mums. Praying that just one Mum would take pity on us and come to his party if asked. I got three numbers and invited them to his birthday party. I stayed up late making pass-the-parcel and party games, laid a full birthday spread and we waited. No one came. It was like Mr Beans christmas for 2. I had failed, again.
The years passed and we moved again and again. Because for us anyway, change didn't happen that quickly. It happened in many moves, many tiny steps, many sessions of therapy. It happened with a thousand apologies and explanations, and forgiveness’ and starting again and again and again and again. It happened in the making of friends and the losing of some, of shame and grief and huge terrifying leaps of faith and so so much love.
And then yesterday my kid turned 15. And my period came and went as normal. And I asked friends for help without a million apologies and get out clauses and they just said ‘yes’. And I didn’t lose any sleep and we danced before breakfast, and no one cried, and our home, our very own home was filled with friends who feel like family, and laughter and my kid, who now stands taller than me was so happy and surrounded by love. I looked around at our life and realised how very fucking much our life has changed.
The thing about slow change is it can be hard to notice the little shifts, and sometimes it takes days like yesterday to see clearly.
15 years ago I became a Mum and I’m only just able to look back and realise that although I felt like I didnt know what the fuck I was doing that whole time, maybe, just maybe, I did.
Yesterday, my kid turned 15, and even more so than my own birthday, the birthday of my kid makes me take a real hard look at everything.
(TW this email eludes to domestic violence)
16 years ago I grew a baby in my tummy in Antigua, the baby of a man who raised his fists and his voice too much. But I wasn’t scared, partly because I knew nothing of birth or motherhood, and partly because I hoped that once I had this baby, my life would start to make more sense, and because I knew no matter what I could keep him safe.
I’ve done a lot of running in these 15 years. A large chunk of my life as a parent was about surviving. 3am ‘adventures’ to Mc Donalds in our pyjamas to stay safe, night rides on mopeds to mates houses for surprise sleepovers, we have huddled behind bushes in fields with snakes in, hushed whispers while headlights search. And we have moved and moved and run and willed and hoped and dreamt big beautiful dreams. But as I look back at photos of the last 15 years I can see now, more than anything, how much magic I have conjured over those years despite everything. From climbing out of our tiny window in our temporary housing onto the roof so we could make a bbq on the ledge, to trips and moves and new beginnings, how deep I dug to get it right, how much sadness turned into joy, to make it magical in a way maybe only mothers can ever know.
But every year as my kids' birthday approached I would feel the weight of it creeping nearer. 15 years ago I became a mother and historically my periods would stop 2 months before his birthday. The strain and weight and loneliness of this day would be almost unbearable. The pressure I put on myself to make it special and the guilt I carried for being in this mess made the months leading up to it long and fraught.
We moved a lot and his birthday falling in the first week of a new school year meant that many birthdays were spent without friends. Our first one in London, living in temporary accommodation, still reeling from our escape and arrival in the UK, I lurked around the playground trying desperately to make eye contact with other Mums. Praying that just one Mum would take pity on us and come to his party if asked. I got three numbers and invited them to his birthday party. I stayed up late making pass-the-parcel and party games, laid a full birthday spread and we waited. No one came. It was like Mr Beans christmas for 2. I had failed, again.
The years passed and we moved again and again. Because for us anyway, change didn't happen that quickly. It happened in many moves, many tiny steps, many sessions of therapy. It happened with a thousand apologies and explanations, and forgiveness’ and starting again and again and again and again. It happened in the making of friends and the losing of some, of shame and grief and huge terrifying leaps of faith and so so much love.
And then yesterday my kid turned 15. And my period came and went as normal. And I asked friends for help without a million apologies and get out clauses and they just said ‘yes’. And I didn’t lose any sleep and we danced before breakfast, and no one cried, and our home, our very own home was filled with friends who feel like family, and laughter and my kid, who now stands taller than me was so happy and surrounded by love. I looked around at our life and realised how very fucking much our life has changed.
The thing about slow change is it can be hard to notice the little shifts, and sometimes it takes days like yesterday to see clearly.
15 years ago I became a Mum and I’m only just able to look back and realise that although I felt like I didnt know what the fuck I was doing that whole time, maybe, just maybe, I did.
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