I'm Not Crying. Honest!

I've been pretty sick this week, and of course, tied up with Alexander's big event. I will come in and talk more over the next day or two. But in the meantime...the images that broke my heart, more than a tiny bit..





And on his first day at the E.C.D.U (My poor boy had two first days of school. Tuesday at the ECDU and Wednesday at the Big State School. Very confusing for my little man).






Heaven help me, he looks like my mother in this pic.

Um..

He starts school tomorrow. In 11 hours and 40 minutes, my darling firstborn will start school. He has more than a decade of learning and friends and adventure ahead of him.


I'mnotreadyI'mnotreadyI'mnotreadyI'mnotreadyI'mnotreadyI'mnotreadyI'mnotreadyI'mnotready.


Breathe. Just breathe.

It's Been Ten Years.

I hate the Australia Day weekend. I've hated it for exactly 10 years now. I wasn't sure about putting this on here, but it's my blog and I'm aiming for honesty and healing. So, I've Cut and Pasted this from somewhere else.

Ten years ago, this is what happened to me.

It was my first pregnancy, I had only been married for 3 months. This wasn't a planned pregnancy, but it was a very welcome one. I was so excited, and so was my husband,Joel. I had my fair share of morning sickness, like most of us, but, that is part of the experience.

When I was 10 weeks pregnant, I had a tiny bit of brown spotting. I was 22 and new to all of this, and I didn't know that brown spotting was not the end of the world. I went to the dr, and they ordered an ultrasound. So at 10 weeks, I got to see my baby, and the heartbeat was good. They said that the bleeding was coming from somewhere else, and had nothing to do with the baby. So i thought that maybe my PCOS had something to do with it.

Anyway, I was still so worried, so for the next week and a half, I took it very easy. My hubby fussed over me, and I just tried to stay as relaxed as I could.

Then, at 11.5 weeks, on Australia Day,I was on the phone with DH, and I looked down and saw some blood. This time it was red. And there was a clot. Of course, I panicked. DH raced home, and took me to the closest hospital. I saw a resident, and she told me that my cervix was still shut, and that my pregnancy test still looked good. Also in my favour, is that the bleeding had basically stopped, and I had not at any stage felt any pain whatsoever. So she said, we would just have to wait and see. Then her shift changed, and I saw another doctor, a man who could barely speak the language. He did an internal, and it was so incredibly painful. Up until this point, I had had no pain, but this was almost unbearable. He said to me that if he pushed really hard, he could just get his longest finger into my cervix. So he said it must be open, and the nurse and resident must have been wrong. He said that the blood clot was the baby. And that it was gone now. He said they would do a D&C in the morning. I asked for an ultrasound and he said it was unnecessary. I repeated my request, and he said that as I had already passed the baby, and it was a public holiday, he saw no reason to call someone in for an ultrasound, when the baby was already gone. I was so upset, but I believed him. After all, he was the doctor, so he would know, right?

The next day they did the D&C. They told me there would be minimal pain. When I woke up, I was in agony. The pain was coming in waves, every few minutes. My nausea came back with a vengeance. I could not stop vomiting, and I had diarrhoea.

I commented on the pain to the nurse, and she said I must have had a terribly low pain threshold, and she sent me home with some panadeine. I went home, and was just so sad. But the pain didn't go away. That night I took some Mersyndol and went to bed, so sad for the loss of my baby. But in my dreams, I was still pregnant. I woke up in the middle of the night, and just couldn't shake that feeling.

The next day, I kept putting my hand on my tummy, you know how pregnant women do? I got some funny looks from my family, they just thought I wasn't coping. But I couldn't shake the strongest feeling of protectiveness that I felt, and the feeling that my baby was still with me. I thought I was losing my mind. I sent everyone home, said I wanted to get some sleep. Sent DH to work.

Then, at about 10.30, the pains got worse. Again, in waves. You'd think this would have tipped me off, but it didn't. Then, after half an hour of this, I went into the bathroom, and felt something come out(sorry, TMI). I looked down, and it was my baby. Complete. Not in the sack, just a baby. Like you see in photos of a 12 week fetus. Exactly like that. I was stunned. I just remember sitting there, and crying over and over again"I'm so sorry little one". I called my sister, and she came over with my mother. When I told them on the phone what had happened, they thought I was delusional. But they came over and saw what had happened. They saw my baby. They were so shocked. I went to the hospital, and Joel met me there.

The nurses couldn't believe what had happened. I asked them how it was possible to do a curette, to scrape out a uterus the size of a pear, and miss this baby. Completely miss it. They said they had never heard of this happening. I remember going to the toilets and walking past the nurses station. They didn't see me coming, and there were about 6 or 7 of them, all huddled over my baby, talking about it. I wanted to scream at them that while this was just some freakish event to them, this was still my baby. They were just all talking about how none of them had never seen anything like this before.

The next hours were filled with the hospitals administrators, the head of OBGYN, the chief of staff etc. They were all backpedalling. They all implied that maybe I had had twins, and that they had simply missed one. But I had had an ultrasound less than 2 weeks before, and we had seen the baby. And we had looked for evidence of a second, and there was none. Even I could tell they were trying to cover their backsides, in case I sued them. I even had 3 nurses approach me, seperately,and tell me that if it were them, that is exactly what they would do.

They said they wanted to admit me and do another D&C in the morning. I understood the need for the procedure, but refused to allow them to admit me again. I said I would go home and come back in the morning.

I went home, and the pains started again! At 5.30pm, I again found myself in the bathroom. With the placenta in my hand. So not only had they missed a baby, they had missed the placenta. We were incredulous. What had they done in there?
I had the procedure the next morning. So my miscarriage, took place over the space of 4 days.

I still don't know what happened. I don't know if my baby was alive, and the D&C is what killed it. I think so. I spent many years hating myself for not trusting my instincts. I should have demanded that ultrasound. Because now, I will never know.

So, it is 7 years to the day, that I saw my baby. Held it in my hands. i have since had another child, he is almost 2. But as much as I love him, he doesn't make up for what happened. I can't get past the guilt that I, by not standing up for myself, killed my own child.

If you have gotten this far, you've done well! I'm sorry this was so long, but as you can see, this is not a short story. And I think it is time it was told. For me. For my baby. And for every other woman who isn't sure whether to challenge her doctors about her treatment. I still wish, that I had.

It's been a decade now. Our first little baby would have been about 9 and a half now. Should have been. What would our lives have been like, I wonder? What would this baby have been like? I know that had we had this little one, we would probably not have had Alexander or Sam. The thought takes my breath away, and then I feel guilt in the next moment.

I wanted that baby so desperately. I grieved, an intense, enormous grief, for years. It took me 4 or 5 years to stop being angry. It's 10 years on, and I still have an ache in my heart for our first little child.

So, it's a weekend of reflection. We did our usual Sunday at Suttons yesterday. And it was wonderful. I allowed myself to enjoy it and to enjoy the two children I have here with me.

But for a few moments, I stole away. I went and stood by the ocean, Sam in my arms. I stared out at the waves, and told Samuel about the first baby. And I allowed myself a moment, to think about what might have been, and to once again, say Goodbye.

Surely Not?

My blog counter says something like 985. I've got it set up to record individual visitors, but I think I might have misunderstood. I know there aren't that many people reading.

Anyone know how to get one that tells me individual visitors, rather than hits?

Did I Ever Tell You?

I have your journal. The one you started when you were in hospital, during your breakdown (I don't know what else to call it, Mum. "Depressive Episode" seem so trite, doesn't it? You referred to it as your breakdown, so we'll leave it there for now).

It's beautiful. Achingly sad. A window into your soul. I know you won't mind that I have it, you placed it in my hand one day, while you were still in hospital. You were tentative. You wanted someone to read it, to understand. But handing over such intimate evidence of your wounded heart and mind was (understandably) difficult for you, (the strongest woman I know) to do.

Bravely, you pressed it into my hand. "No. I trust you. Read it." A hurried amendment "Not in front of me, though. And I don't want you to show anyone".

You went to eat dinner with Dad, and I stayed behind, and read. I felt odd at first. I desperately wanted this insight. I wanted to read your words, to understand what you were going through. I wanted to find the 'answer' to how I could help you. How stupid I was. So arrogant. So ignorant. I thought I'd be wise enough to read your words, and instinctively 'know' the best approach. The path I would traverse, to bring you back to us. To bring you back to you.

Of course, no such solution presented itself, though I certainly did learn more about the real issues you were just beginning to (finally) deal with. You didn't put them in writing, exactly, you didn't say the words. But somehow, as though you'd used invisible ink and left a message for me, I knew. And despite having faced something similar (though not as horrifying as what happened to you), I did understand something important. That this was bigger than me. This was bigger than Dad and I, as formidable a team as we could be. You were in the right place, but these wounds would not heal easily. They may (and indeed, they didn't, did they?) never truly heal. But that the right decision was made, for you to stay in that hospital. I'm so grateful even now (as I was then) that your insurance allowed you to stay there, rather than the alternatives, too terrible to let myself think about.

Anyway, I'm rambling (it's 1.30am. Bear with me). This wasn't actually my point.

What I wanted to tell you Mum, is that I love the way you write. Wrote, I guess. I wonder, did you know what a writer you were? You knew you had a way with words, certainly. And you loved to use them well. You could be so eloquent, so inciteful. Your words could move me, in their sheer poignance. And on the next page, you could make me laugh, so dry and wicked. ;) I wish that more people knew that about you. You were funny. The kind of funny only a sharp mind (For those who didn't know her, she was, quite literally, a genius) could deliver.

Sometimes, I steal away to my bedroom and bring out your journal. Joel sometimes worries, when he finds me, tears streaming down my face, clutching the diary, reading again (sounds like I do it often. I don't. Just now and again, when I need to). He worries that it is simply too upsetting for me. Just like when I play Eva Cassidy singing "Somewhere Over The Rainbow", my eyes closed, images of you filling my mind.

But he knows now. He knows that sometimes, I just need to feel your presence. I don't mean I need to feel you with me now. I know you're not. But I mean, I need to feel that place in me you inhabit. Not push it back a little (it's always there, you know. But sometimes, I need it to take a lower profile, simply to live life and cope), but really, really let it wash over me. The best way for me to do that is in the power of that journal. I can feel you. Those words, they are so utterly you.

I'm not explaining it right. (See, however much I love to write, even more than you did, I'm not sure I have your gift for it). Some people, when they write, 'sound' different. It's not them. They don't have the ability to make the words sound like them. You can't read it and almost hear their voice. Some people are better with the spoken word than the pen (we all know you were blessed with a gift with both).

But you, you could do it. I see your writing, I read your words, and I almost hear you. Certainly, I feel you. It is as though you are there, in my presence. Just chatting. That's it! Reading your words is like talking to you. It felt the same. That journal, despite it's content (this was, of course, the darkest time of your life) felt just like a chat with you. A difficult chat, in this case, but nonetheless, that is how it feels. Like we're once again sitting at that kitchen table, a cuppa in our hands, talking while the rest of the family sleeps (those are perhaps my favourite memories of you and I. While the rest slumbered, and Dad worked, we would have our morning cuppa and talk, alone, mother and daughter).

Anyway, I got a bit off track, yet again. I just wanted to say, I love the way you wrote. You were good. Really good. You talked a lot about my writing, back in school. You thought I'd be a great writer, and you loved to keep the things I wrote. Did you know, I got it from you? That maybe you were better? I wish I had it, that talent you thought I had. But I think you had it too, and I so admire it in you. That's all. I hope I told you.

A Hallmark Moment..

I was feeding Sam this afternoon. The house was quiet, the only sounds heard, the humming of the air conditioner and the quiet strains of Chopin. Alexander was playing at his cousins' house and Joel was still at work.

Sam's getting a little more control of his hands. He stares at me as he feeds, and I take his hand from it's usual place above my heart, and kiss his chubby little fingers.

His eyes widen, and he smiles a little. I smile back and make a show of kissing his hand all over. He goes back to feeding, and I sneak a glance at my book, hoping to get just a page or so in. It would appear my beloved child had other ideas. Just a moment later, a clumsy hand practically collides with the side of my face! He jabs away until they find their intended target, my lips. I look down and he grins as I kiss them for him. He settles back to feed and I again, stealthily allow my eyes to wander back to the pages.

Whack! His hands are back, this time finding their target quickly. I wonder if this is deliberate, and for a moment, pretend not to have noticed. I hear him stop drinking, and I can almost feel him hold his breath. Silence. He holds his fingers to my lips, but otherwise, doesn't move an inch. I relent, smiling and look back at him. His eyes are shining, but he still doesn't drink. I again kiss those fingers, and he smiles, and immediately starts to drink. That's better, Mama!

Twice more, we play this game, each time it's the same. I look away (now only pretending to read) and he finds my face with his fingers (well, once they found their way up my nose, but that doesn't count, does it?). He stops sucking until I smile and kiss them all, then sighs, and goes back to his lunch!

I was feeling so relaxed (after my truly horrible morning) and revel in the silence and the peace of the moment. Gazing at my little man as he slowly starts to give in to sleep. His breathing becomes more even and his sucks further and further apart. Until finally, with a gentle little smile, he is almost there.

And then, in a hallmark moment my sweet, innocent baby boy, so gentle and loving brings his hands back to his face, a sign that he is almost asleep. He sighs, releases the bottle and in what I hope is not a sign of things to come.....





Flips me the bird!

Wonderings..

So, it's favourite photo Friday.

Alexander starts school in just 4 days! I'm scared and sad and excited for him, feeling a little more confident that he will love it.
I was looking through some photos on the computer, and found some of 5 year old me.






I thought of you this morning. Did you feel this way? As you prepared to send your firstborn off into the world, did you feel the way I do right now? Were you scared? Sad? Excited? I wish I could talk to you about it. I wish you could see him now.

I wish you could tell me I'd done enough, and he was ready.

Brought To You By The Number 4

Samuel Thomas you are four months old today. You came into this world on the 24th September, a chubby, hairy baby boy. We tried for two years to conceive you. We knew a couple of months before you came, that you would be our last baby. I'm a little bit sad about that, but I'm so glad we got such a wonderful little boy to complete our family.

I was thinking, just now, about the day you were born. It was a Monday, and Daddy and I were up pretty early to go to the hospital. We took Alexander to Aunty Jo's and we were at the hospital by about 7 in the morning. It was so strange walking in that day, knowing that when we walked out again (more than a week later!) we would have you with us!

I was so huge, and so sore, but I just couldn't wait to meet you. Your Daddy was so excited and so happy when you were born. Did you know, when he heard you cry the first time, he cried too? Mummy didn't even know that until later (Mummy was slipping out of consciousness, so she has an excuse).



So many people waited anxiously for you. Looked forward to meeting you for such a long time. You have a lovely big family, Sam. Lots of Uncles and Aunties, Grandparents and cousins, and some amazing friends. All of them love you so much! But not as much as your Daddy and I do. (I know I've told you this, lots of times. But you hit the jackpot with your Daddy! You couldn't possibly have a better one. You love him now, but you just wait, Samuel. You just wait and see. He's amazing and you're such a lucky little boy to have him as your Daddy).

This is the first moment I met you. Your Daddy brought you over to me, to say Hi. I was just so relieved you were ok!





Look at those chubby cheeks! And all of that hair! Do you know, that people who worked at the hospital used to come and visit and check you out, becuase they had heard about the cutie with the chipmunk cheeks and lots of hair!




Mummy had a bit of a rough time at first. You and I were just working each other out, and Mummy was pretty sick. Those first weeks were so black, so blurry, I wish I could go back and fix them. I wish I could have a do-over. I wish I knew then what I know now. That I would survive. That you would thrive. That I would love you this much.

You're still chubby, and my goodness you're hairy! (Although, most of the hair on your head has fallen out. But you have the hairiest little back and legs, my little monkey! Just like your brother. Your Daddy and I have no idea at all where that comes from). But Samuel, you are so much more. You smile so easily, and so quickly, you even surprise yourself. You suck in a breath, stretch your body and let out squeals of sheer delight when those you love smile and talk to you. You're so giggly and happy (as long as we're talking to you!).

You're looking more and more like Alexander and I. Though yesterday your Grandma brought around a photo of your Daddy when he was about your age, and I can see some similarity.



You already idolise your big brother. Your beautiful blue eyes follow him around the room, studying every move he makes. Your head turns at the sound of his voice. Your eyes shine when you hear him laugh. And your bottom lip trembles and your eyes well up when you hear him cry. I think that already, he is your hero. I hope you love him this much forever.

When I feed you, you place your hand over my heart. You've done it since you were born, and I wonder if you feel it beating and feel as safe as you were when you were inside of me. You stare into my eyes, and I feel like you know all of my secrets. Tonight, as I fed you, just 20 minutes ago, you moved your hand from my heart, and lovingly, clumsily (you're still trying to work your hands out. Don't worry. You'll get there soon enough) caressed my face. I was surprised, and looked down at your hand. Then back at your face. I smiled. You took a big breath, and your face broke out into that smile that melts my heart. Your eyes shine, and I see in them, how much you love me.

You give your love so easily, my precious Sam. You offer it so openly, and I'm so proud to have it. I will spend the rest of our lives earning it, sweet boy. I promise. I hold you as you drift off to sleep, and am suddenly overcome with our lucky I am to have you at all. You so nearly didn't stay, so many times we thought you would go. And here you are, smiling as though you know something we don't. Perhaps you do. Perhaps you know you were always meant for us. You were always going to stay.

Thank you for staying. Thank you for being so strong, my beloved son. I can't wait to get to know you more. I can't wait to watch you, these next months, as you get to know your body, and your surroundings. We're going to have so much fun, you know.

Goodnight, sweet boy. I love you so, so much.

Mummy.



I looked outside a moment ago, and saw that the moon is full and bright. So is my heart.

Careful, He Might Hear You.

Ssh. Samuel has slept through 3 nights in a row. From 8.30 to 6.30. Ish.



Please don't tell him. We don't want him to know we know yet. Just in case he's messing with us.

Just In Case You Thought I'd Left Him Out

Some more pics of my little Sam (Or Sam-Sam, as Blaze would say). He's getting so big, and is such a happy boy.

Playing With Daddy



Happy Baby
(Yes, his nappy is backwards in the first pic. Grandma put it on!)










Whachyoutalkinbout Willis?



Yummy Hands!



Finally got that thumb!




Cuddles with Aunty Lissa (He just loves Melissa).




Why Yes! You're Right. I do HATE tummy time. What tipped you off????








He's such a joy. He loves music, walks in the pram oustide, and Elmo. He adores his big brother and seems to be very taken with his Aunty Gemma. Daddy's the funnies thing ever, and nothing calms him like Mama singing.

His Mummy and Daddy are completely, utterly and forever in love with him.

New Beginnings

(I actually wrote this yesterday, but was having trouble with my modem, so couldn't get it up here til this morning).

WARNING - THIS POST HAS MORE PHOTOS THAN YOU CAN POKE A STICK AT. CONSIDER YOURSELVES WARNED. ;)


How things can change in just weeks. Not three months ago, Alexander was a lonely little boy. Oh, he had parents and uncles and aunts and grandparents who adored him, hanging on to every word he uttered, every smile he threw our way. But he had no friends, no little boys to laugh with, no children to chase around. I used to watch him, a solitary figure, bouncing on his trampoline and feel just..sad.

Today, I watched him on that same trampoline, with his three cousins. His two new cousins, Blaze and Kaidyn (Shane's new wife's sons) and Lachlan, Gemma's 2 year old. Note to self. 4 Boys on Trampoline. Worst. Idea. Ever. One boy at Doctor as we speak (poor Lachlan has landed badly on his leg, and cannot bear any weight at all), and 2 with sore heads (any guesses????). Silly Mama. Silly Aunty Lissa.

Anyway, we all had a playdate today (we had one yesterday too, but they can't get enough of each other). It was a cooler day, overcast and breezy, so we decided to walk down to the park. The next couple of hours were spent a) with me getting my large backside kicked playing soccer with Kaidyn (much to his delight!), and b) watching them all play and laugh together on the playground equipment.

It warms my heart to see him making friends. And they love him. I know it sounds obvious. But this has not been our experience. Sadly, Alexander is usually the brunt of bullies and unkindness when he plays with children his own age. Becuase he can't talk well (he has a major language delay), he is teased and his attempts at play are rebuffed. But these boys seem to love him, and while they are not oblivious to his issues, they have never been unkind. They play with him, fight with him and ask for him as all cousins would.

So, some photos of all of our boys, just enjoying life. :)

Lachlan - Oops!




With His Mama (My sister, Gemma)


Blaze, Kaidyn and Alexander





Kaidyn






Blaze



My Man!



At the beach on Sunday







I love seeing him with his cousins. I love the thought of them all being close for years to come.

Of course, he's learned some new bad habits, but that's a story for another post.

For my own sake...

I have decided to edit this post. For my sake. If I want to move on, if I want to get over it, it needs to go. I have to stop coming back here and reading it. Because each time I do, it all starts again. It matters not how much progress I make. Each time, I feel the same way again. Boiling anger. Righteous indignation. Deep, shattering hurt.

It's not helping. And this blog, before everything, was supposed to help me. So. I've edited it. I hope not to do anything like that often. I believe in honesty, otherwise, what is the point? But for my sanity, for our relationship, and for my heart, that one had to go.

I'm moving on. Thank You Kim.

Laugh It Up Fuzzball

So, it's 4am on a Sunday morning. The sun is still a little while away, it's quiet and dark outside. My family slumbers peacefully, we have a wonderful day before us. Relaxing morning, pottering around the home, followed by what is now the highlight of our week, our afternoons and evening at Suttons Beach.

I'm in Samuels room, the light from his lamp just enough for us to see each other. I sit in my rocking chair and feed my little baby boy. Nat King Cole and his daughter, Natalie serenade us in the background, and I, in a whisper, sing along, garnering a sleepy half smile from my sweet child.

His eyes grow heavier, as he takes his fill, a little intoxicated from warm milk, the rocking of our chair, as the soothing voices of his Mama and the Coles. The moment itself, yet another memory I'm breathing in, to be summoned in years to come.

His eyes are fluttering now, as sleep begins to win over his desire to listen more to Mummy and look into her eyes. Just as his lashes fall onto those adorable cheeks, this sound shocks us out of our reverie.


A family of kookaburras has lived in the parkland next door to our home for quite some time. Much as I love the wildlife around us, this morning I could have happily taken them all out.

My poor little man got such a fright, and as I tried to settle him, closing the window and moving us closer to the CD Player, I felt the moment snatched away from us.

He's alseep now, tucked up in his cot, scary sounds forgotten for the moment.



I, however, am now completely awake, the last vestiges of sleep vanished. Damned Kookaburras.

Will try to get some pics this afternoon at the beach, capture the joy in they eyes of my firstborn.

May you all have a perfect Sunday, my friends. Maybe I'll try to sneak back under the covers and snuggle with my husband a little longer. Or at the very least, go reclaim my book from my bedside table. Can't turn down uninterupted reading time, can we?

Points if you can tell me where the quote in my title comes from.

Peace

So, it's Favourite Photo Friday again. I have a few, but they are all of the same place, so that counts, right?

This is Hydeaway Bay.







It's a little hamlet near Airlie Beach(about half an hour away, maybe a little more). We lived in Airlie for 18 months, beginning about a week after Alexander turned 2. We needed to get away, after all of the trauma of Mum's death, and the following year and a half or so with Dad. Everyone was burned out and stressed.

A fantastic job opportunity for Joel came up. Initially we dismissed it. The thought of leaving our beloved Brisbane seemed utterly preposterous. But we'd moved in with Mum and Dad just weeks after finding out her illness. I was just a couple of months pregnant. For the following months, our entire life was about her. Taking care of her. Preparing to lose her. Missing her. There was so little left for just us.

Then she was gone, and we were still with Dad. And he got angrier and angrier at the world. And we really bore the brunt of his grief. After our initial "No" to the job, we sat down and had a talk. Realised that perhaps this was a good opportunity for us. For the three of us to just be together. To just be us. To find out who we were again.

So, we broke the news to our families, and in two weeks we were gone! For me, the least impulsive person I know, this was an enormous step. We moved to a small town, more than 1000kms away from our families.

It was wonderful to be away from all of the 'mess' back here. We missed everyone, but we spent 18 months just discovering our little family. It wasn't all sunshine and roses. By then I was dealing with severe depression and my anxiety attacks had turned into intrusive (and self destructive) thoughts.

But there was this one place. Hydeaway Bay. We used to try to escape there on the weekends. It was almost always completely deserted. Far enough away from town to not be a regular haunt for locals. The tiny township far to small, and without shops or even town water, so not frequented by tourists. The last few kms are just gravel, a bumpy ride, there were many more 'convenient' and better serviced areas to visit. It felt as though hit was just ours.

The beach was clean and quiet. Nestled against bushland, abundant with wildlife. Large, smooth boulders littered the shore like giant sized marbles, left ever so carelessly til next time. The water was as clear as glass, teeming with tropical fish.





Alexander, who had suddenly become afraid of the water just months earlier, learned to love the beach here. He could 'feel' the ocean, before he could see it, just as I had for years. He could feel the change in the air, and know we were close to his beloved playground of sea, sand and rock.











I used to take a book with me to the Bay. Always intending to steal at least some of our day laying on a blanket, under a tree, lost in another world. But inevitably, the same thing would happen. I would sit on my blanket, and find my gaze drawn toward the scene down near the water. First, at my husband. Eyes shining, arms around our son as he taught him to use the snorkel. Pointing out fish and coral to our wriggly 2 and a half year old. I thanked God for bringing him to me. For the blessing that is this beautiful man, so full of love. Wanting to breathe in his strength and calm spirit. So grateful to raise this child with him.

And Alexander. Oh, the love I would feel for my little man as I watched him chase his Daddy along the sand. I'd look at him and dream of the boy he was turning into (no longer my sweet baby, but my big boy) and the man he would become. My heart would swell as I watched them, witnessed their play, and felt almost an intruder in their world. Until, unable to stay so far away anymore, I place my book down, brush the sand from my arms and tentatively walk towards them. Watch their eyes light up as they see me come their way. Hear the giggles as they in an instant decide it's time to chase Mummy. Join their laughter as we all run down the beach and into the welcoming tide.


We've been back home now for a year and a half. I'm glad to be back, surrounded by loving hearts. But there are moments I long to take a deep breath, and escape once again to our little hideaway. For it was here, in the gentle breeze, gazing at the turqoise ocean, that my little family could be truly at peace.






I wish you'd seen it, Mum. You'd have loved it.