Absolutely nothing to do with knitting.

So, I guess this is just a 'therapy' blog post and absolutely nothing to do with knitting. I was going to put 'I can't even see anything to do with knitting from where I'm sitting right now' but a ball of Debbie Bliss cashmerino DK in a lovely blue is in my in-tray (where else?). So that's the knitting part crowbarred in.


My youngest daughter will be two this month. Two. Years. Old. 


No big deal, right? And I've been saying to my husband for ages, 'She's not a baby any more'. She's walking. She's getting more and more words every day. (My current favourite, and apologies for the shameless parental brag, is 'cu-coo' - no, not cuckoo, she means cuddle. Altogether now, awwww.) Her turning two isn't really a big surprise or anything.


But it really struck me today, and made me feel sad. Then I remembered that I felt really upset around her birthday last year. This is not broodiness - bugger that, I absolutely do not want another. Life is hard enough with three of the needy little darlings without adding another. My lovely friend Helen announced that she is pregnant last night, and although I'm absolutely thrilled for her, I couldn't help but inwardly shudder at the idea of going through the hell that is pregnancy again. I'm not remotely envious of that part. Newborns? Cute, yes, lovely gummy smiles, little waving arms, yadda yadda, fine for a cuddle but I don't want one. My eldest daughter asked for a goldfish yesterday and I'm balking at the extra responsibility of even that. 


No. No more children. I simply don't have the inner resources. So why the sadness? I'm not entirely sure, but I think it's a mixture of reasons, reflecting also on why I felt sad this time last year:

• I don't have the right word for it, but the basic pulling-at-heartstrings feeling you get watching your children grow up and reach milestones. That feeling you get when they first go to school. Your little baby, that you grew and fed and watched grow, isn't small anymore. You blinked and time has moved on. Long, long days but quick years. 
• Following on from that I think there's a sense of 'what have I done with that time??' I'm not demeaning bringing up children. I still work. I don't want to have a career and break the glass ceiling. But my identity has been lost a little along the way, and time passing is reminding me of that.
• My daughter was quite ill after she was born. We spent nine days in hospital (after a home delivery) and although my mum thought this was great as I'd get to rest without the 'interruption' of a baby, it was a hideous, hideous unsettled and uncertain time. They couldn't find what was wrong with her, did three spinal taps, she got better and then worse again. We were four floors apart, I had the shakes and a rash over half my body (possibly from my own infection, which didn't clear up straight away either), the staff in SCBU each gave me their own take on the best way to try and breastfeed a poorly baby leaving me a bit bombarded and wondering how the hell I'd managed with the first two, one nurse called her 'loud' (well, yes, she's a 10lb baby who's hungry and you're used to 1 or 2lb babies who physically can't cry 'properly') and made me feel generally like we were being a nuisance. Then when we were discharged I was just told to 'wait and see if she hits her milestones' with regards to the potential long-term side-effects (she had meningitis as well as a chest infection). She's totally fine now, no hearing loss, but it still feels raw and fresh and horrible.

I feel teary typing the above. SHE'S FINE NOW. Look:

(That's not even a very recent picture. Bad mummy.)

Happy birthday baby girl.