Some details

I thought about writing to Treasures Magazine, but the more I wrote, the more I wanted to say and I started putting too much of myself into it. So there only remained two options for where to record this stuff - here, or in my journal. My journal has been a life saver when things have gotten rough, but this isn't so private that it needs to remain unseen by anyone, but it's a little too much of myself to send to a magazine. I know, that doesn't really make sense. I want people to read it and understand how a parent of a living child and a dead child feels, but I'm afraid of putting myself out there.

I am the mother of two children. One is a beautiful, healthy, happy nine-month-old girl. The other will always remian a five-month-old boy, as he died over three years ago due to an inherited terminal deletion of the X chromosome. I didn't know I was a carrier until he was five weeks old, and I have a 25% chance of conceiving another affected boy with each pregnancy. I am like first-time mums in that I struggle with solid foods, marvel at my daughter's milestones, and worry about every little thing. Yet, I am not like first time mums. The difference is difficult to define. When my daughter was five months old I spent a week convinced that she was going to die. I kept her angel monitor on and kept the parent's unit with me at night, convinced that I was going to go in and see her blue. I found it difficult to sleep, and the tears came easily. I look at her and am grateful for her existence each and every day - even when she has been up half the night or has been grizzly all day. My son changed the kind of mother I am for the better - and while others in my life moved on, my son lives on in my heart.

I guess one of the main differences between me and the other mums I know with children Athena's age is that I do not desire a break from motherhood. Not even for one day. I was a mother when my son was born. For five months I loved him and attended to his needs. Then I had a break from motherhood. I was a mother with no child, fitting into nobody's world. I didn't fit in with childless couples because I knew what it meant to be a mum, but I didn't fit in with people who had kids because I couldn't kiss my son good-night. I guess I'm afraid that even a short break now will turn into a permanent one - a fear that the other mums I know just don't understand.

Now I fit okay with other people who have kids but not so well with new mums. For one thing, one mother's definition of a "tragic" birth is one where she had a vaginal delivery, healthy baby, happily breastfeeding, but the pain was worse than they thought it would be. To me, that sounds like the ideal. My idea of tragic is having my son taken away from me by emergency C-section, then whisked to the NNU within minutes of his birth - before I could even hold him. Or worse - getting the news that the baby is dead. With Athena, I had a scheduled C-section, struggled to breast feed for over a month before I gave in to the inevitable, and cried for half a day when I finally had to give her formula.

I never thought I would have the complicated feelings I still have though. While it is natural to worry about making mistakes while raising your child, I still fear that I will outlive Athena. I still feel alone, unable to connect with other new mums, and it is difficult to define why. I think some of it has to do with my choice to not go to antenatal classes with Athena. My antenatal class group (with Alex) didn't exactly kick me out, but they went on with their lives while I was living every mum's worse nightmare. My reasons for not doing a class with Athena were complicated. Partly I didn't want to negate my son's existence by going through a class where I already knew the information. Partly I didn't want to face the naivete of the other parents-to-be. Partly I didn't want to scare the bejesus out of any of them. Any because I had a high-risk pregnancy and was facing the possibility of an early delivery, I think I didn't want to believe in the healthy outcome until I heard my daughter scream. That was a beautiful sound. I had hoped to do a Baby and You class and tag onto an antenatal group that way, but it didn't work out. It was only recently that I found out that one antenatal group specifically didn't want to allow additional people to come along. It deeply saddened me, because not everyone comes to parenthood through easy conception and uncomplicated deliveries. It makes me feel that there is no room in the world for the atypical parental experience. I wish I could make those parents understand - just for a moment - so they could open their hearts and minds to other people's experiences. I had hoped to give my daughter the "friends for life" opportunity that I see antenatal groups providing children. I had also hoped to find the support that I see the mothers in my PIN group and Mother's Network group enjoying from their antenatal groups. Antenatal groups are the ones were the bonds are formed and last, whereas the other groups tend to fall apart.

I'm not entirely sure if all of my feelings stem from my experiences as a mother, or if some of it comes from the emotional scars I carry from paedophile father and an inherently selfish mother. We are all, at the end of the day, merely an accumlation of our experiences. I just wish I could find ... the balance, the fit, figure out where I fit in so I can give my daughter the best start possible for her life.