Facebook is both a wonderful and terrible thing. This morning I woke up to the pictures above – a reminder of a very excited little boy.

But we need to talk about the “Memories” capability…

When Mark died it was a way of having someone else to share all the things Ethan did with. It was adult feedback about events and decisions. It was sharing a wry smile over a glass of wine at the end of a very long and relentless day.

It was my lifeline.

Generally speaking its a treasure trove of funny things I’ve sent to my mates (who obviously agree I’m hilarious!), cute pictures of Ethan, tweets and political statements that felt so current and important but I can’t remember anything about now, momentous occasions such as the first swimming lesson, THE BEGINNING OF POTTY TRAINING, the wine at the end of the first day of potty training, The moment when I break and just put pull-ups on him again….you know the sort of thing.

But then every now and again there is a sucker punch to my stomach. It will be a birthday message from Mark, a caption to a photo of my two boys snuggled up together asleep on the sofa, a wedding anniversary, or (a particularly impressive one) the message in which I told all of our far flung family and friends that Mark was being moved to a hospice with no further treatment, or the one 2 days afterwards when I told them all he had died.

So, that was a fun thing to pop up after Facebook says ” we thought you’d like to see this…”

Because I didn’t, not at all, and I won’t like it next year either.

So why stay subscribed, you ask, If it means you end up with PTSD flashbacks while scrolling your newsfeed?

It’s this collective memory thing. I really am so bad at remembering things, and this is a way of accessing this shared memory store of Ethan. Especially during the 2 bad years, when I honestly think trauma has wiped a lot of my memory.

I worry about being the single repository for all the memories of Ethan’s first few years.

I’m hopeless at remembering things like the first word, first step, first bit of food.

The fact that there is video evidence of at least some of these is one of the saving graces of living in the 21st Century. But it’s not sufficient on its own.

And, because I am naturally anxious, I worry that I’ll miss out on telling him something so incredibly important that it will shape either his understanding of his father, or his very personality. Mark was the one with the details. He was the one with the photo on his desk on the back of which was written Ethan’s first word along with the words he was currently using at a certain date.

I think maybe I was so in the thick of the daily whirlwind that is bringing up a child that these things passed me by. Obviously I was excited at the time, but then the details got pushed out to make room for remembering jabs and to order more washing powder.

When you build a partnership, or a marriage, or a family with someone else, you both take on different roles relative to your strengths (and necessity). You don’t both need to be the one who remembers birthdays, or the one who is better at recalling when the first tooth arrived. But when you lose your partner you lose that half of the skill set you’ve developed. You lose that half of the memories. You lose that half of what your family means. And it bothers me. It makes me feel guilty and as if I didn’t care enough to hold these things in my head.

And, to be honest, I’ve only just realised that it may have been because I was the one doing the work. And he was the one being updated with the important news, or coming home and getting the highlights. Generally speaking. When you are so in the thick of it every next thing that happens is your priority. Maybe remembering that will make me feel less guilty… Who knows.

With this baby I periodically feel the pressure to over-compensate and ensure there is detailed record of everything that ever happens. But in reality I have a 7 year old, a house that never stays clean, a washing pile that never gets any smaller, about 3 different jobs, and more than a vague interest in what is actually happening in the world (completely bat-shit crazy though it is). I get the chance to make a quick note of whether or not I’ve taken my prenatal vitamins today, and I can’t imagine that adding an actual moving baby is going to help my time management.

So, Facebook it is…

Sunday was Mark’s birthday. He would have been 37.

This year it took me by surprise. I knew it was coming up but when I woke that morning it took me a while to look at the date on my phone and realise. I told Ethan when he snuggled into bed for a morning cuddle and he asked if we could go to the cemetery. He wanted to take flowers and write Daddy a letter. When it came to sitting with the piece of paper in front of him he got as far as  “Happy Birthday” and then was stuck. He didn’t know what else to say. But then I can’t blame him. A 7 year old isn’t meant to know what to say in a birthday card to his dead father, is he? In the end he drew some flowers and signed his name and we drove up there in the afternoon.

It’s a beautiful place really. The grass is spongy with moss, the trees lush and green in all this rain, far enough away from town to be peaceful. There is a huge old fir (I think) in the middle of the graves, with the thickest trunk I’ve ever seen, deep brown and dark green, sheltering the metres around it. It always fills me with awe as I think how far it’s roots are spreading through the cemetery, connecting everything. We put down our flowers and our letter and had a little chat to Mark about what was going on. Ethan said “Happy Birthday” and told Daddy that he had a cold! I had been fine all day, but listening to his little voice tell his Daddy about school and the Hatchling broke me. He never wants to stay very long – I get that, it’s not a very engaging place for a 7 year old and everything he has to think about there is very abstract. As we drove home I found myself back in my most frequent line of thought: my son is a very impressive little boy, but he shouldn’t have to be. I am torn between being oh, so proud of him that he can articulate his feelings and furious with the universe that he has had to learn this skill so young.

On the 30th October will be 5 years since Mark’s death. It both feels like yesterday and a whole lifetime ago. To be perfectly honest, standing there at his grave with the Hatchling moving around in my belly felt odd. My whole life and the circumstances I have found myself in are so very strange. Any possibility that there might be any sort of over-arching plan seems laughable. There have been lessons learnt, sure, but not through design. I was brought up with the concept that there was a plan for my life – an end goal that I was heading towards – that you just had to find the right path and you’d get to that point. I can’t pass that assurance onto my son – because it’s crap. You have no idea what life will throw at you when you wake up on a Tuesday morning. The best you can do is make sure you have people around you who love you, enough self-awareness to know why you act and respond how you do in every situation, and a sense of humour to carry you through when all else fails! If I can model those things for him, and for the Hatchling, then I think I’ll be doing ok. (Maths skills would also be a bonus!)

Milestones are weird things. In reality, each day is much like the other. It doesn’t get any sadder on the 29th of September, or the 30th of October, or the 12th July, or the 17th March. Mark is not missed any more or less. But our brains like these checkpoints. They help us make sense of time, and I think they help us weave the action of grieving into our lives as we walk forward. Humans crave rituals, birthdays, anniversaries, festivals, Strictly Come Dancing finals. And a grief milestone helps you create those rituals around the loss of your loved one. I have never told Ethan that on Daddy’s birthday we visit his grave, but we have done it every year and now it is a normal part of the year for him. This (I hope) helps him frame his grief, and gives him an opportunity away from school and minecraft and friends to take it out, examine it, and experience it. He knows that being happy is perfectly fine, and so is being sad. Should he need it, he has an outlet.

So, Happy Birthday Mark – our son is pretty damn awesome, and we love you very much.

All clear at the 20 week anomaly scan! Yay! It was a really special experience for Nick and I. It was amazing watching the technician point out the kidneys, the tiny 4 chambered heart beating away like crazy, the individual vertebrae  of the spine snaking down the Hatchling’s back, and the legs waving around. At one point it headbutted me in the bladder and I could see and feel the movement at the same time – that was mind blowing; and when the tiny mouth yawned I thought I was going to cry.

And everything was fine. Again, I think I was waiting for something awful to be wrong – to hear that I had done something I shouldn’t, or that my body had not been cooperative. I was expecting bad news. But everything was perfect – bang in the middle of the weight it should be at this point, all organs in working order, feet pointing the right way, long legs and defined lips and nose. We are all good. And on track for a healthy, happy new team member.

I don’t think that I’ll stop worrying. This is me, after all. But it does calm me down for a bit at least.

So now the house is slowly preparing to welcome a new baby. We have to move the playroom into our spare room in the loft and then create a nursery in the playroom. I’ve decided I want the furniture all sorted by October half term – I think this may be a completely arbitrary deadline, but it feels better to have some date in my head. And to have begun to make some progress.

It appears the nesting has started. Yesterday I cleaned our living room window – inside and out – because it was annoying me. I haven’t cleaned the windows in years (yes, I know I am a terrible slob of a person!). Then I moved onto cleaning all the doors, and had to stop myself from doing the skirting boards as I was getting weary. I’m getting urges to rush up to the loft and just throw everything out…I’m not sure how many belongings are going to survive this pregnancy! The house is annoying me. It isn’t too small – for crying out loud I grew up with 6 people in a 2 bed! But we have A LOT of stuff. And we’re not very good at culling (apart form, it seems, when I am pregnant. So maybe I should take advantage of this newfound urge to purge and have a massive clearout…)

Life constantly changes, and we change with it. I think that when you do something momentous (such as adding a new person to your life) there comes along with that an opportunity to reflect and look anew at what your life currently contains. A bit like when you move in with a new partner, adding a baby makes you consider how your belongings and your environment facilitate the way your family works, and the person you are. It’s a break in the day to day – an opportunity to ditch things that you’ve been holding onto, but don’t serve a purpose anymore.

When Mark died I left his clothes in his side of the wardrobe. I didn’t open the doors, or sit amongst the shirts and cry, I just couldn’t move them. I think it was when I started back at work that I decided that they couldn’t stay there any longer, but that I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them. Predictably, out came the vacuum pack bags, and everything was put away in the loft until I could contemplate going back to them. It took a long time, the hand holding of Mark’s brother Daniel and his husband, and a LOT of gin to get through that day when it finally arrived.

When Nick moved in with us it was into a space that Ethan and I had worked hard to make our own. But there were still changes to be made, someone else’s belongings to fit in, and decisions to consider about which keepsakes and photos still belonged on display. We didn’t move the house on from Mark, we didn’t make it less ours, we simply made room for another person’s significance and presence.  And, again, this gave me an opportunity to think about what was still me and what wasn’t. Did I really still need to resist having a sofa in the dining room now that I could workout in the living room? Was the best place for the washing basket still in the corner of the bedroom, or had I just kept it that way because Mark had put it there? Was a study still necessary, when a playroom would consolidate the ridiculous number of toys strewn around the house? Stupid little things that just gave life a bit more flow.

Now that the Hatchling’s arrival is zooming closer I find myself regarding everything in my house with a more critical eye. I’m not thinking about baby-proofing yet (although that will be a shock to all of us, relaxed as we’ve become with sensible Ethan!), but there will need to be space for the day bed downstairs, and a playmat. We’ll need to rearrange our bedroom to fit in a crib for the first 6 months (although to be honest it’ll be more like the first 3 if Ethan was anything to go by!). The buggy will need to go somewhere as we’ve filled the space where it used to live with a large shelving unit where we keep our shoes and keys…(this is my current unsolvable problem; it can’t go in the dining room as I refuse to stare at muddy wheels whilst eating my tea, and it can’t really go in the hallway as Ethan (and Nick) will knock it over every time they walk past. Answers on a postcard please as I’m this close to building a lean-to on the patio for it to live in) The playroom and the guest bedroom (which seems to be full pretty much every other week and will probably be busier with a new baby) have to be consolidated into one space – a space which also includes my ridiculous collection of books, all the toys the Hatchling has yet to grow into, and the usual Christmas decorations, camping gear, winter/summer clothes (depending on the time of year) and everything else the normal family has in their loft. I am going slightly bonkers thinking about it.

If you don’t hear from me in a while, it’s because I’ve been buried under a pile of baby clothes and youth work text books…send help!

Today the Hatchling is 20 weeks old…we’re officially half way there!

I have been feeling very tired recently, so I am sitting and resting, looking at the living room that I have created.

Well that’s not quite true. The bones were laid whilst Mark was still alive. He picked the egg blue on the feature wall, the cream on the rest – I wasn’t sure about both. So little confidence in my own taste and how it might work out in practice. Putting pictures from my head into real life has never been something I am brave with.

The carpet was here when we arrived. I immediately hated it, but we were to live with it until Ethan was potty trained…and then I never got around to it. I still hate it. So much. The deep blue sofa that arrived in our first married home as a present – an extravagance that I had never imagined. Buying a sofa made to order…new…in a colour I liked, not one that was cheap, or borrowed, or donated. I love that sofa. It contains so many memories. Breastfeeding Ethan , him falling asleep – satiated – on my shoulder as I sit in the corner, in front of the bookshelves. Watching Damages as he suckled contentedly but determined. Sitting on it 7 months pregnant feeling so uncomfortable (I’m not looking forward to that this time around!) – reading Mumsnet threads that made me laugh so hysterically that I cried. And Mark finding that so funny that he insisted on filming me. That bloody camera, a present ready for the baby being born, that he determined he would be behind at any opportunity. But that meant he was rarely in front of the lens, and photos or video of him with Ethan are few and far between.

Wiping it with muslins, removing sick and crumbs and yoghurt and chocolate….oh the germs that must be on it! The red fluffy throw that used to be on the end… The cotton throw with elephants, purple and red, to help me make the rented house fell more put together. The low, massive coffee table in front of it where Ethan first started pulling himself up onto his own two feet – making me so proud.

Moving it to the new house – our first that we owned – Mark’s massive accomplishment. A new house, new community. Everyone who came to see us had trouble getting off of it – so deep and enveloping. Made for snuggling with the one you love. The cushions at the back never being plumped enough. It’s lasted 10 years and it looks – almost- as good as new! I will be sad to buy another. The loveseat that I bought all by myself to fill a gap I saw in the space. Terrified as it arrived and I didn’t think it would fit through the door. Terrified as I unpacked it that it was too big for the space and that I’d made a stupid mistake. Proud as I set it up, matched cushions and posted it online because there was no-one in real life to be proud of me and praise me. The curtains that I hate, but have to keep as we have no others. The piano which stands as a reminder that I never have time to fit in all of the things I want to do into my life. I don’t know whether that’s because I want too many things or I waste too much time – this is my eternal question.

The TV bought with Marks first bonus at KPMG. Remembering the hours he spent researching and comparing, hunting for prices and discounts. Me thinking that no-one ever needs a TV this big, that it was too massive for the room – taking up the corner like a big black blank space. Greedy. But, you get used to it…spoilt now.

The painting hanging over the piano. Mark’s birthday present a month before he died. He was meant to come home and see it framed – the colours matching perfectly with our sofa, the paint he’d chosen. All together and peaceful for him to die in. Because the loveseat was bought to shut out the memory of another chair which had sat in that corner of the room – the motorised, old people’s chair with the padded cushion so he could get up and down and be comfortable. So he could take the pressure off his tired joints, his bed sores, so he could rest and not have to walk up the stairs to the bedroom too often. The kindness of our friends who found and bought the chair. The defeat it represented to me as it sat there. And the fact that he never got home to see the painting, to see the walls, to see the creation, to use the chair, to lay in the hospital bed that was to be delivered and placed in our living room.

And so, now, this is my space. I have created it. With the chaise longue from my wedding to Nick in the corner instead, Blitzen the reindeer skin draped over it. Liam the wooden giraffe next to it. The piano with Nick’s mother’s dinner gong sitting on top of it, underneath the birthday painting (which was the perfect blend of my love for Jack Vetriano and his love for motorsport). The space where I can do my workouts, even though Mark hated me doing them in the living room.

It feels warm and cosy. It feels like an amalgamation of all of the men in my life and all the things I love about them. I have battled to keep it clutter-free for years, for this to be the front window of my life – see, I can keep something clean and tidy! – I need peace and calm and tranquillity and order somewhere, otherwise I feel like everything is spiralling out of control, like I’m not good enough at this being an adult thing, like everyone else manages and I’m hopeless and lazy and self-centred.

But this is my space. I get to choose.

Since we got back from Carfest, it’s been a manic rush to get all the back-to-school stuff sorted. So I’m a bit behind in keeping you all caught up with Hatchling developments! I’ve just dropped Ethan off for his 2nd day of school and the house is a lot quieter than I’ve been used to these past 8 weeks.

We had our first consultant appointment last week. Doctor’s appointments in the summer holidays are a pain in the backside! The plan had been to get someone to look after Ethan so that he wouldn’t have to hear me talk about nearly dying when I gave birth to him….desperately trying not to give the poor boy a complex! But no-one was available, so we settled on Nintendo Switch and penguin headphones…. ah, the wonders of 21st century parenting!

But it turns out that it was pretty awesome that he was with us. He got to hear the Hatchling’s heartbeat and the lovely midwife explained all the noises and numbers to him. He had the biggest grin on his face – very special!

The wonderful consultant (who I would like to always be my consultant for everything for ever and ever!), read the letters about Ethan’s birth and asked me what I wanted this time around. I was fully prepared (with my usual worse case scenario head on) to have to stage some kind of sit-in to get the elective c-section I wanted. But when I told her she just said “Fine”. And that was that – all sorted! To say that I felt relieved would be a bit of an understatement. Now I don’t have to spend the next 21 weeks worrying that I’m going to die in childbirth…you know, it’s the little things…

So now we know how the final weeks of pregnancy will pan out (and we all know that I like a plan!). Blood tests in the run up to make sure I have all the iron I need, anaesthetists appointment in week 38 where we’ll get a day for the section, and then going in early on that day in week 39 and waiting for my spot! Very straightforward. Then all we have to worry about is keeping an actual baby alive for 18 years…

The Hatchling has been moving around a bit more. I have realised that I’m going to panic when I don’t feel it as much. I’ve got an anterior placenta, so it’s perfectly normal. With that information I can bring myself back from the panic…but realising that it will be where my head goes is quite useful really.

There’s lots to do now that Ethan is at school and I have my days back! The next massive task is to sort out the loft/guest room. All the baby things I’ve collated over the last few months has amalgamated into this huge pile of stuff that all needs a home! So if you need me I’ll be counting babygros and trying to get Ethan to cull his toy collection so we can change the playroom into a nursery. (He doesn’t actually play with any of it anyway, but the occasions when I’ve suggested charity donation have not gone down well.)

Wish me luck!! x

Last weekend the 3 of us travelled up to Lincoln to visit my mum. We went to collect all Ethan’s old baby stuff from her loft. For the life of me I couldn’t remember what was up there and I have mixed feelings about retrieving it.

As I’ve mentioned, Mark and I had decided to try for another baby when Ethan was about 2. When Mark was diagnosed and we were given the 18 months prognosis I decided that I couldn’t deal with having all the baby paraphernalia hanging around the house, constantly reminding me of all our future plans, laughing at my audacious assumptions.

So my mum turned up – white knight as she often has been – with plastic boxes and packing tape and vacuum bags and labels. We packed it all up in an afternoon, so put it in her car and drive it away. I didn’t need to think about it anymore.

I’m not quite sure wheat the boxes stood for. And I know that for a very long time afterwards I was certain that I was never going to have to use them again. I envisaged sharing out the contents to various friends popping out children as and when they needed things. But mostly I just didn’t think about them.

I didn’t really expect to be delving into them again; Ethan sitting with my new husband and being alternately bored and fascinated that he used to be that small!

Predictably, Ethan wanted to know why all these boxes belonging to us were in his Grandma’s loft. So often I find myself having to make these things up on the spot. He never asks the questions to which I have carefully prepared answers, with bullet points and visual aids….

I told him that when he was 2, Daddy and I had decided that we would like to have another baby. But then Daddy had gotten poorly and it made us sad to look at all the baby stuff when we knew we wouldn’t be able to have another baby. So Mutti (what he calls my mum) came with some boxes and we packed it all up so it wouldn’t make us sad anymore. We thought we would come and get it when Daddy got better and then we would have another baby, but Daddy didn’t get better so the boxes stayed here. Now Nick and I are having a baby, we’ve come to get all the baby things so that the Hatchling can use them.

To be honest he took it really well. He said that it was cool actually, because ” you and Daddy had me and now you and Nick are having the Hatchling. It’s like 1 each!” Obviously fairness and sharing are huge factors in our situation!!!!

Unpacking it all was beyond weird. There were so many happy memories attached to the door bouncer, and the striped vest he wore on his 1st day in the world. A smiling face, giggles, and wonder at the ridiculous speed of development of this remarkable boy. And I am so excited to do this all again – to see another cheeky face smiling up from the changing mat, or rolling around under the baby gym.

But also the disappointment that our family did not work out the way it was supposed to. The sadness that, although Mark got to see the first 2 years, he has missed so much of his little boy’s life, and so much of his developing personality. There is also a little guilt, as there always is hanging over me, that I am trying to get a “do-over” and leave the past behind me. This will never actually be true – you don’t get over and move on from things like this. But my brain sometimes tells me that I should be sitting in widows weeds, encamped permanently on the bench at the cemetery, not having a baby with my new husband.

I’ll be grappling with this mix of feelings forever. It is, I think, part and parcel of widowhood when you’re not over 70. There is so much of life left to live, and I would be doing a disservice to Mark not to try and live it as fully as I can. Including another love, another marriage, and another baby in a (definitely not golden) carriage!

I have always been an anxious person. But I spent the first 32 years of my life being a die-hard optimist. Yes – sometimes life sucked, but you could always make it better, you could always make the best of a bad situation and there was always a silver lining. I expected life to be kind because God was good and wanted good things for me.

Now I am still an anxious person, but I no longer expect the silver lining. I do not expect life to be kind to me, and I’m still not 100% sure how I feel about God and what he wants. I live each day waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I think that the sheer speed and unexpectedness of Mark’s illness and death has blown out of the water my ability to carry on day by day with the expectation that everything is going to be ok.

This is why the wait for the 12 week scan seemed interminable. And also why I don’t think I let myself hope to much until we’d seen the tiny bundle of black and white wriggling around on the screen. I spent the first bit of the pregnancy assuming that something would go horribly wrong.

It wasn’t until we’d had the all-clear that I let myself feel any kind of connection to the Hatchling. It was the afternoon of the scan and I thought. “Ok, so you are sticking around. I can love you then.”

Then this week the blood test results came back – all clear, everyone is healthy, and there’s nothing to worry about. I had been waiting with baited breath – assuming something would be wrong. I’m not quite sure how to snap myself out of that. It’s quite a tiring state of mind to be in most of the time. And it feels so different from my last pregnancy.

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Mark and I didn’t really discuss conception or trying to get pregnant.

The most advice we got was when I went to the doctors and was told to take folic acid and that Mark should stop cycling…that didn’t go down well!

Oh, and the nurse at my contraception check who told me, in a very judgemental tone, that I could do with losing a stone if I was going to get pregnant….which was nice. (and also ironic, as it turns out that it was the pill making me put on weight, and when I came off it my weight dropped!)

I think we cut down on drinking at first. Then nothing happened for 3 months and he freaked out. That whole Catholic sex education where they basically tell you that if you look at a girl the wrong way she’ll get pregnant immediately! He wanted to go and see the doctor, so I kindly informed him that they would laugh at us if we went before we’d been trying for a year!

It didn’t help that he was away all the time with work. In hindsight I don’t think he was ever there at the right time of the month, although I wasn’t as aware of my cycle as I am now. Also he was knackered when he was around. After 3 months we both gave up drinking and cleaned up our diet even more. And I think we were both pretty stressed and anxious about it, which didn’t help.

And then, we went to France, after 8 months of trying. We drank red wine and beer, ate cheese, bread, sausages, all the things we’d cut out. We relaxed for a week in the sun. And got pregnant!

Cheese is obviously the answer!!!

I had no idea though. And the following week we went to the KPMG weekend away, and got completely wasted at the make your own cocktail bar. And it turns out Ethan was already growing away! So, I hold little truck with the whole “no alcohol or you’ll damage your baby’s brain cells” approach… To be honest, if I’d stayed tee-total and he’d been any more clever than he is now I don’t think I could have coped!!

The pregnancy was awesome. Well, there were weeks where the nausea was constant and the only thing I could stomach was marmite on Ryvita….but you accept those things. (Morning sickness is a myth, by the way, I felt sick ALL day). And people talk about feeling tired in the first trimester, but they don’t mention (or they didn’t to me) that you feel as if someone has taken your batteries out. I had lunchtime naps on the sofa in my office just to keep going! And then there was the tinned grapefruit obsession, and the appearance of a sweet tooth, which I’d never had before. The last trimester was all about red meat. We didn’t eat that much of it generally, with Mark’s obsession with being healthy, but it was all the baby wanted…burgers, steak, burgers, steak!!! Walking to work was getting more difficult, and sitting behind the wheel of the car was too. When I look back at videos and photos, my bump was so neat and tidy, even when it got really big. And the continuous exercise I was doing meant I didn’t put on that much weight anywhere else. Even if Mark did make me switch from my beloved Tracy Anderson to pregnancy yoga and specific workouts…..

If only the birth had been the same.

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So I am trying to return even a little of my optimism. To focus on positive thoughts.

This time it will be different. This time there will be a date in the diary, when I will go into a room, have a c-section, get to hold our baby and be awake when I go back to the ward. Then feeding will be easier because my body can focus on making milk and not blood to replace all that I lost, recovery will be easier, and our family can continue trauma free – for a while at least. Here’s hoping.

Not having to do anything brings inspiration. On Monday I didn’t have to think about anything. People came and told me when my treatments were starting, when my lunch was served, when it was time to go home. I didn’t have a school pick-up enforced deadline that I was counting down to. I could relax, knowing that I had time.

I never have that sort of time as a working mum. I remember a counsellor once who seemed a little incredulous that, although I wanted to be a writer, I hadn’t written anything more than an email in months. It would be good for me to do it on a regular basis, he said. And surely just sitting down and writing was a simple thing. Anyone could find time for 10 minutes? But – although I’m not one for broad sexist statements – that’s such a male thing to say. To write anything of meaning, quality, substance, I need to know that I’m not going to be interrupted. By physical things like the boy needing his bottom wiped, or the phone ringing. By mental traffic, such as the constant list of chores and things to remember running through my brain. Or if I have put out the washing yet, or made tea, or renewed the car insurance, or bought cards and presents for whoever has their birthday this week. Then I can’t relax into that place where my creativity resides. And if I have a day without the boy, I am still “on call” almost. In case something unexpected happens, or with the constant countdown to pick-up time.

So that day – in the middle of a rare 4 days child-free – has been a revelation. Everything else can be put on hold because I cant go anywhere. I am sat in this spa for 8 hours.

It felt selfish when I suggested it. I came very close to not booking it at all. I always feel selfish taking any time for myself. It’s taken 9 years to feel ok with my hourly workouts. It’s so easy to think that every moment has to be productive – ideally for someone else’s benefit. But without space for yourself, what makes you “you” gets swamped by shopping lists and ironing piles, and household minutiae. I hate to think of the millions of individual contributions to society we’ve lost because the house needed hoovering and the baby needed feeding and tea needed making and Auntie Jane needed flowers ordering for her birthday.

I know a spa day is a luxury. But I know too many mums who have never spent a day or a night away from their children. When we become parents we still remain people in our own right. We need to invest in ourselves and our wellbeing. The whole “an empty cup can’t pour into others” thing has become cliched; but it’s true. And there is much value in modelling a healthy sense of self to our children.

Book a babysitter. Take an afternoon. Or an hour. Go for a walk. Sit on a bench. People watch in a café. Or even lock yourself in your bedroom. And just have some time.

And take a notepad – you never know what might result.

So we went Facebook-official this week…eek!

With the all-clear at the 12-week scan on Monday we decided it was safe to let those who Ethan hadn’t already told know that team member no. 4 was on the way. I’d really been looking forward to this moment, and since the 1st trimester seemed like it was going to go on forever, it was a huge relief to get it out there.

And the best thing – it reminded me how big and how wonderful a support network we have all around the world. Facebook gets a bad rap (I’ve watched The Great Hack: I know that there are reasons to condemn and steer clear), but throughout my life I have moved around A LOT. I have met loads of wonderful people who have been incredible important to me at different points. But I am only human – it is impossible to keep in touch with them all on an individual and regular basis. Facebook means we can stay part of each other’s lives and not feel guilty that we aren’t writing each other 8 page letters once a month. So, I guess Zuckerberg has me for life *sigh*.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget how many people are rooting for you. It’s easy to forget how many people are happy for your happiness, and want to share in your good news (and in your bad). It takes a village to raise a child. My village is widely spread. But they all form part of the web within which I have raised Ethan. They are part of the larger family we have created so that he feels loved and supported and secure, no matter what happens to him.

I know that I always have someone to call upon when the going gets tough, or when things are shiny bright. And both of those are equally important. After Mark died the single parent thing was hard. There was no-one there in the moment to share those exciting events with (or the struggles). When I watched him cry through his first swimming lesson with no-one to talk to I posted on Facebook. A flood of messages came back to me with reassurance. When we went on our first camping trip together I posted a photo of the completed trailer tent and others shared in the sense of pride. It can be very lonely in moments like that. But my virtual village pulled me through. I’m so grateful that they still want to travel along now there are 3 of us (soon to be 4!).

So, I’ve done the brief introduction.

You now know (if you’ve read it!) how I was widowed, and that I’m now expecting a baby with my 2nd husband….

(To be honest, every time I write or say “2nd husband” or “current husband” or “new husband” it makes me feel like I’m a 50-something with a lot more hairspray than is fire-safe, a smoking habit and a large glass of Pinot Grigio in my hand…none of those things are currently true!)

Mostly I want to use this space to chat about the idiosyncrasies of being widowed, remarried and pregnant, and about some of the things that are the same no matter what circumstances you find yourself pregnant in. To begin, here are some things I’m currently thinking about:

1. It feels like about a million years ago that I was pregnant with Ethan. It was only back in 2011, but I have changed, the world has changed, and – obviously – the man I’m having the baby with has changed. All of these things add to the feeling of not-quite-de-ja-vu that I’m periodically having. There is also the added weirdness of having to remember that, although I’ve done all this before, he hasn’t and also has a say/opinion on various things. It’s very easy just to run with it and be a bit blasé.
2. My children will have different surnames, may look very different to each other, and have quite a large age gap. To be honest, I’m not sure how much of a problem this will be in real life. We’ll have birth certificates and marriage certificates, and death certificates (something I may as well just laminate and put in my wallet it gets asked for so often). But I hate the idea of anything that may make Ethan feel different.
3. Nick and I have been very careful, ever since the idea of a baby was mentioned, to ensure Ethan is as involved as possible. We talk about “our baby”, or “your brother/sister”. We have been a tight family unit for 4 years and we have no intention of that changing. We’re a team, and we’ll stay a team – just a slightly bigger one. We don’t want him to feel different, or shut out. We made the decision to tell Ethan I was pregnant in week 6. Partly because we are truly rubbish at keeping secrets and didn’t want to have to stop talking about baby stuff when he was in the room. But partly because I didn’t want him to freak out. In the last 4 months of his life Ethan’s Dad was sick a lot, tired and spent a lot of time in bed. Even though Ethan was small that was a scary time for him. I didn’t want him to think something was terribly wrong with me and have him worry that I was going to die like Daddy. Some people frowned at this, or told us it was a bit risky. One person even said “Oh well, fingers crossed!” as if something would obviously go wrong and we were being irresponsible. Well Ethan is a very logical and scientific chap. And the way to stop him freaking out about things is to explain them to him clearly. It’s what I did when his dad died, and it’s how we’ve worked ever since. If anything goes wrong then the 2 of us will explain it calmly and sensibly. And, as a team, we’ll move forward from that. As it happens, Ethan went into school the next day and told his entire class that we were having a baby…they got no work done for the rest of the day and everyone was ridiculously excited at pick-up! The whole year now calls the baby “the hatchling” like us, and I have to give regular updates to 7 year olds on how big it is this week! I’m also pretty sure I’ve sped up a few birds and bees conversations in various households…..oops!
4. I am older (obviously) than I was during my last pregnancy. They seem to have moved the “geriatric mother” cut off to 40, so I don’t quite reach it! But I’m definitely more affected by symptoms, and I’m more exhausted than I remember being. Keeping fit for the last 10 years will help, but I’m fully expecting the third trimester in particular to be more of a strain. I also had a pretty terrible birth experience with Ethan. This time round I’ve been very clear that I’m having an elective c-section. I’m aware that recovery will be tough, more so as I’m 8 years older.
5. I have an actual child to look after whilst cooking this one! I worked up until week 37 of my 1st pregnancy, so it’s not as if I could keep my feet up. But when I got home I could relax, and weekends could involved lie-ins and long baths. I could have afternoon naps and when I felt sick as a dog (pretty much all day from week 7-14) I didn’t have make sure anyone else had tea/entertainment/clean clothes/been washed in the last 48 hours. Being responsible for a 7 year old whilst dealing with, again, terrible all day sickness (I’m not calling it morning sickness. That’s a lie. So there.) is not as difficult as dealing with a toddler or pre-schooler, I realise. But Ethan is still quite demanding. And I’ve struggled through more Minecraft games than I can count whilst trying not to be sick over my phone. Cooking hopefully nutritious meals for him whilst only wanting to eat crackers and cheese is also tricky.
6. There are times when it feels odd. Mark and I were trying for a 2nd baby when he got his diagnosis. It had taken about 2 and 1/2 years for both of us to get over the trauma of Ethan’s birth and contemplate the idea of doing it again. My father had recently passed away and the experience had made me value my siblings and our shared experiences even more. I wanted Ethan to have that, ironically in case anything happened to Mark or I when he was older. I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to go through a 2nd pregnancy with him. And occasionally I do feel as if it should be him – as if I’m betraying him somehow – erasing the past and having a do-over. It is an odd mental space to inhabit – being deliriously happy about something new going on in my life – dating, falling in love, getting engaged, getting married, expecting a baby – whilst also grieving for a future that never was with a man who I will never stop loving… It takes a very secure person not to be jealous, and I am very grateful that Nick is that kind of person.

So, those are my initial thoughts. It’s still early days (currently 11 weeks and 5 days, actually), so who knows where my introspective, anxious brain will lead me from here!