It’s 2013 I’m the mother of a newborn – a longed for child. I live with my husband in a red brick house in a estuary city at the end of the line.
The baby is beautiful, a healthy little boy. We name him after our Irish roots. He arrived in a blur of pain plucked from water, by a kind midwife.
Parenthood was a mystery at first – the baby manual no damn use. A colicky, fretful boy pushed us to our limits. Irritation buzzed like a pesky bee. We wrestled for the crown of most hard done by.
A health scare, on top of scant sleep, chipped away at me. My husband was kind, yet he couldn’t stop me from falling. The wise Dr packed me off with pills and counselling.
One wakeful night, I couldn’t switch off my brain. Cross words had cut the evening short. Absently, I reached for my phone, it’s lights luring me back.
In that moment, I was drawn to the notes section. From nowhere, I started to write and write. Words flew from me – a poem of sorts. As I wrote, I started to relax – emotions emptying into night.
That was the start of my writing journey. From there on in, I typed as I went about my days. On the bus into town, in between feeds and during baby naps. It was like someone had flicked a switch in me. Some poems were angry, some sad, others funny and joyful too. It was like I’d rediscovered myself, shook a part of me free.
When we become parents, we do not realise what we trade for the privilege. The love you feel for your child is endless. Yet as parents, we must love ourselves too. I have learnt that, in order to find my balance, to be a better mum, I must make time to write. This outlet has been my saviour, pulling me back from dark places – helping me feel whole.
Boudica's Roar 