Permission to Breathe

A long long time ago in a galaxy not too far away lived a girl who wanted to have a baby. After many years of trying, she finally was blessed with a beautiful little boy. When he was born, she looked at the little guy not with the first instant reaction of love (shucks!) but with a wry smile and a feeling of hopelessness and fear. What the fuck was she supposed to do with this little skywalker?

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Truth be told dear bloggies, I wasn't one of those infertiles who said that once I got pregnant and had a kid that I would be a great parent. I knew that I would at least be better than the ghetto fucks who live down the street or my filthy sister in law who has 2 degrees but can't manage to use a mop. I looked at my wee little man, took a deep breath, thanked God for blessing me and then it hit me. What now?

Was I supposed to have inherited or be instilled with the skills of master parenting just because I wanted a baby so fucking much? I was the lucky one and now I should be "happy and grateful" with the blessing and should shoulder the medal for all IF's. Seriously? Am I allowed to breathe first?

I parent with the flow, the way the wind blows. What I feel is appropriate or completely wrong to do or not do. I have the support of my husband, who in the early days, his head was in the sand further than mine but nonetheless there for me. My mum the gem, her unwavering support is absolutely endless, but her Greek traditional ways sometimes bothersome (READ: Ouzo on the gums when the kid is teething) I also had a smidgen of support from the fertile friends, their relentless information sometimes overwhelmed me more than helped me.

I never had a birth plan. I never researched the benefits of cloth nappies over disposables. I never cared about the type of wipes I would have to use or whether a fucking grow bag will help with sleeping over a simple wrap. What I did care about were the safety and benefits of immunisation, prevention of cot death and my little guy reaching his milestones in a safe, comfortable and loving home.

I'm sure there are plenty of parents out there who research and learn all of the above. I will never understand though why designer cloth nappies are so bloody great and why baby wash products have to be organically made. Sometimes I think that their child needs permission to shit. That reminds me - I love that movie Fight Club and I bet the liposuction of some obese women's fat arse fat is what makes most of these products.

I have a clean home. I cook fresh and healthy food. I have a husband who adores me. I have family and friends who love me. I have a happy and content little man named Callum who only recently approached me, patted me on the head and said "nice Ma".

I'm not perfect. As every day goes past I say thanks to God for my little family. But if when I make mistakes or complain or whinge or bitch about parenting, it's because I can. And, I. Will. Say. It. Out. Loud. Not be tight lipped for fear that I might be judged for breathing and that I should be grateful for having a kid after IF.