There are days when I am so desperate to write, but capturing my thoughts in words, like trying to catch the wind.  This invisible force that you can see and feel – yet you cannot touch. On these days the need to write is so strong, that I fear I may lose my mind.

It is a strange feeling. Sometimes debilitating.  Especially when I am dwelling on so many things – like the birth of a parent, analysing the depths for its meaning and how it differs for each one. That moment when you realise that no parenting magazine will ever do justice to the reality of parenting. The ill-prepared nature of it all, good or bad.

The uncanny wonder we call motherhood. That moment often referred to as magical. Yet, nowhere, not in one magazine did they ever mention the actual grotesque process of literally shitting yourself as you’re trying to birth your child. A cold and painful process, the lead up to the actual birth of my child.

Magic? The moment my son was placed in my arms. Time stood still. Relief and wonder – fear and anxiety. An innate and infinite love was born.

Flashing before me, a reality that was never part of my plans. Single. Unemployed. These two words no longer phased me.

The birth of a parent and child into the unknown. A world where parenting magazines no longer made sense. A reality so far removed from those glossy pages and thick pregnancy books that I devoured to equip myself with as much knowledge as possible.

Suddenly I realised that parenting is not a one size fits all scenario. There is so much more to it! My child was a breeze – he was as divine to me in the flesh as he was to me in the womb. We spent endless days in each other’s company – just the two of us. In our beautiful little world. Oblivious to the chaos outside.

This weekend reminded me of those early years. Locked in our world, content in each other’s space. The absolute endearing nature of the bond we share. Mother, and child.

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