Usually as I realize the year is quickly drawing to a close, I start reminiscing about things that, for a small moment, were my entire world.
This year, I’ve gained some amazing memories. This year also marked the occasion of my trip down the aisle; I’ll can never thank everyone enough for making that day absolutely spectacular. I can now call Him my husband, although I still am not used to that.
When I think back to the time where I wanted nothing but to travel, never be tied down and let the winds of change alter my progress through the world… I feel like its someone else’s life. That isn’t the person that I strive to be anymore.
I’m absolutely content in myself and my home.
My house isn’t the cleanest, nor the more interesting. But it’s mine. I love every little dog-fur-filled, dust bunny; I love every picture and painting we have on the walls and I love our outlook, and the fact we can see the sky with no other houses to block our view. Our house is quirky…Sorry, my mistake.
Our house is quirkies big brother. It’s 4 levels twist and turn like a labyrinth. Almost every wall is made from a different material, and almost every door handle is unique. It’s an addition, on an addition, on an addition… and my husband is now making additions of his own; turning spaces into bedrooms and putting up walls which weren’t there before.
The house is completely reflective of my mind and sometimes I don’t like that too much. But then, I take a look outside the window and see the trees, gardens, space and think… You know what? That’s fine with me, afterall.
This year has also brought with it, among other things, a little 9 month stretch-my-body-to-create extravaganza. Everything is tired of everything. But every waking moment of the day is filled with this underlying feeling of Fuck.Yes.
I’m excited for the lack of sleep, the crappy nappies, the emotions, the confusion and of course, the tiny little child that looks somewhere in between the Mr and Myself.
Don’t get me wrong, I know full well that one of the 3am feeds will go awry and then my entire world will come crashing down in a flood of tears and “I can’t do this!!!” … But I’m pretending, until then.
Not that being in the hospital for any length of time will be appealing. I dislike hospitals and doctors as a whole. My surgeon saved my life, and probably will again, and so the appreciation I feel for him is about as close to actual positive emotions, and that’s as good as it’s ever going to get.
Doctors and Medicine in general seem so very archaic to me, that Its almost laughable. And Yes, I’m very aware that we’re at the very forefront of medicine and research, but the fact that we still have to do exploratory surgery to find out what’s wrong and how to treat it… that’s the bit that I find totally ridiculous.
But, other that the complete fear I’ll have instilled in my nurses come delivery day, I am finding the upcoming title of ‘Mother’ odd. I’ve never imagined myself as a Mother before.
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve imagined the 47 children I’ll have, what I’ll do on the weekends with them, how to help them with their homework and even how to yell at their teachers for them… but I’ve recently realized that I’ve never had any great thought of myself as a Mother.
Well… that now has to change.