OH, SLEEP by Cloudi Lewis

In this week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece Cloudi Lewis writes from her bedroom, a place that saw her suffer insomnia as a new mum, but eventually becoming a zone of peace and promise.

Cloudi says, ‘before starting my piece I made a bullet point list of all the struggles I faced in becoming a mum and thought I’d end up with a really dark negative story but somehow my writing took on a life of its own and managed to give some light to some of the parts I found most traumatic at the time such as my insomnia. I found the process very therapeutic and it helped me through my next pregnancy and birth.’ 

OH, SLEEP is a tender, hopeful piece about the healing power of time – enjoy it here.

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Oh, Sleep

Cloudi Lewis

I’m wide awake tonight. You’re lying sound asleep next to me and your dad is here too – snoring away. Usually I’d begrudge that he’d dropped off before me but tonight I am feeling peaceful and smile to myself as he rolls over and starts trying to engage me in his mumbling. He laughs dreamily, ‘Are you going to introduce me, then? You just introduced yourself.’ Who knows what is happening in his dream world. Tonight, I am oddly enjoying being the last one awake.

I let my mind wander and find myself back in late May 2018. You were so tiny, so dependent, so vulnerable and every fibre in my body feared this. I couldn’t sleep at all, then. Your dad and nan tried to help me by giving me blocks of time to sleep day or night, but I couldn’t rest. My whole body would shake, my arms would tingle wondering where you were, my boobs would ache and demand to be drained, my mind would see people in the shadows coming to steal you, and if I was so lucky to start to drift off I’d be back in the hospital ward in pain and confused.

I pull the covers up around us like a security blanket and snuggle into the warmth. I couldn’t hide in the duvet back then, as you’d been born into the hottest summer I can remember. At night our bedroom left me feeling like I was back in Asia walking through the stuffy markets seeking out the air con, but all we had was two useless fans that moved the hot air around. During pregnancy I had daydreams of taking you away as a baby to explore parts of the world that me and your dad had fallen in love with. That was before the reality of statutory maternity pay, cluster feeds, insomnia and panic attacks had presented themselves oh so lovingly into my life.

The house is silent now just as it could be then – except for my mind that would constantly race through a thousand thoughts all at once. I would watch over your sleeping body, checking for the rise and fall of your little chest, slowly reaching a hand close to your face just to feel your steady breath. I’m suddenly drawn out of the hectic memories by my new passenger, who likes to remind me of his presence by waving his tiny limbs around, making my stomach jiggle in strange waves just as you once did. I’m back in bed, feeling worlds away from who I was then. I roll over and nuzzle into you, taking in your sweet sweaty smell. I kiss the top of your head and place a hand on my stomach to acknowledge your little brother. There are four of us now and I’m feeling ready to do it all again.

***

Oh, Sleep by Cloudi Lewis appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

MOTHER ON EARTH by Georgina Hardy

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is MOTHER ON EARTH, a powerful and heartfelt poem by Georgina Hardy. Georgina writes of the destruction of the planet, and explores how to raise a child, how to live as a family, in the best possible way.

 Georgina says ‘I’m worried about the state of the planet and the future of mankind and I’m scared of what future Fern will have and what state the world will be in in 20 years’ time. I do try and be positive and teach Fern about how to look after and be kind to the earth - we’ve already attended five climate justice protests together. Our dream is to buy a plot of land and be as self-sufficient and as low impact as possible. My poem was a way of getting my thoughts and worries down onto paper.’

Of her process, Georgina says, ‘I always try and have a notebook with me wherever I go so I can jot down any thoughts or inspiration. Quite often I would work on my poem whilst walking through the forest surrounded by nature away from any noise or distractions. Mothership writers was the first thing I did for myself since Fern was born.’ 

You can feel the passion in Georgina’s rhythmic and urgent poem – and the poignancy in the questions it raises.
 

***

Mother on Earth

Georgina Hardy

It starts with a storm.

I am wandering amongst the Scowles,
above me the wind howls,
at least it's a sign we're still breathing,
a sign that she's listening.
The rivers have swollen,
burst their banks.
Nature has awoken.

I don't blame her for fighting back.

Fires burning,
oceans rising,
rivers flooding,
temperatures soaring.

We are living, growing, loving.

Don't have kids, they say,
overpopulation,
no resources left,
stop reproducing.

Am I selfish for having you?
Completing my own life,
bringing you into a world full of strife.

But you could be the one who saves the world.

Right now you're innocent.
Splashing in puddles,
climbing trees,
hunting for bees with muddy knees,
joy in a woodlouse,
the wind in your hair,
pointing at aeroplanes, that shouldn't be there.

My heart is aching,
trying to be hopeful,
wishful thinking,
wanting, hoping change is coming.

The world is different to when I grew up,
that place no longer exists.
I have to raise you in a different way,
to prevent the earth's decay,
how do I prepare you?
What do I teach you?
We need to be off grid and be sustainable,
but is this even obtainable?

The people in power, they ain't listening,
We need to stand up,
we need to be strong,
they are wrong,
it's a ticking time bomb!

I wish I could be more sure of what you'll face,
could it be the end of the human race?
Could you move to Mars
and live amongst the stars,
or some other planet,
where there are no cars?
Or live in an eco dome under the sea,
or build a castle in an ancient tree?

Be brave, little one, it's up to you.
I am ready for the apocalypse,
and you are too.

***

Mother on Earth by Georgina Hardy appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

THE FIRST TIME by Aurélie Broeckerhoff

This week’s treat from Dispatches from New Motherhood is about the simple pleasure of a bike ride. In THE FIRST TIME, Aurélie Broeckerhoff writes about the joy of her wheels, and her heightened senses as she cycles through the city without distraction one summer evening, just a few months after giving birth.

 ‘I feel an occasional guilt that I don't feel any guilt about leaving the house without children,’ says Aurélie. ‘I may sometimes have said I do, because it felt appropriate, but I actually don't. I feel that I deserve it. Initially I assumed the kids would be ok without me (for a bit!), and now I like knowing that they are. I wanted to write about not just retaining a sense of independence in motherhood, but also really genuinely relishing it, however short lived. A catch up with a friend, a solitary bike ride or swim, an actual hot cup of tea in a quiet house - I feel that motherhood has shown me how precious such moments really are.’

Of Mothership, Aurélie says, ‘I joined Mothership Writers when Hannah was 1 or 2 weeks old. Apart from my school days, I had no experience in creative writing. But I have always loved writing, so I thought it'd be nice to give it a go. It was the one activity I committed to during mat leave number 2. With two kids at home now, days felt suddenly full. I loved the two hours of quiet every other week, usually with a sleeping Hannah, some cake, and a chance to follow my thoughts for a while.’

Enjoy Aurélie’s soul-lifting piece; it’s a testament to finding time to do the things that make you happy – and being guilt-free.

***

The First Time

Aurélie Broeckerhoff

It is neither a long nor a pretty cycle. Our suburban streets aren’t exactly picturesque, you see. The boarded-up tool shop, the disused shoe factory (now a porn studio), a collection of overturned bins that contrasts with the neat rows of Victorian terraces east of the city centre. And here am I in one of those terraced streets, wheeling my sky-blue bike past our front door, down the three steep steps and onto the pavement. A bit nervous about sitting on a bike seat. Soon, it’ll be five months since I gave birth. Today, my first time on a bike, and my first evening out. I am leaving my house on my own. The sun is shining. I am beaming. Right in this moment, this bike ride is my hard-won time.

Pedal, pedal.

Near St George Park, I smell summer, a BBQ and the warm city air. I see an entire colour palette of front doors and floral shirts. Waiting for a green light, I hear kids’ voices and faint music through an open window of the small block of flats. Free-riding an ever so slight downhill at Gratitude Road feeling a gentle breeze against my cheeks, it strikes me that I am indeed grateful. Over the muffled sounds of this mellow evening, electric lines somewhere are making clanking noises that remind me of Buddhist temples. And for a brief, eternal moment, I feel completely free.

One of my favourite books as a teenager was about men in grey suits stealing time. Now that I have welcomed my own two tiny grey-suited time-thieves into my life, this bike ride is it: my turn to take some of that time back. In the novel, a turtle called Cassiopeia is the only being that can move while time has been stopped. As I pedal on, I remind myself of Cassiopeia, purposefully, philosophically defying the theft of time.

Before I became a mother, riding my bike was a practical part of my daily life. On a bad day, I would curse cycling in the city – dog poo, broken glass, fumes, too many cars, traffic lights, too many noises everywhere.

That was before children.

Now, in this one short and ordinary bike ride, I am releasing this Motherhood Me into the world. Even my legs remember what they are supposed to do. The slight tension in my under-used muscles feels like an old ally. My near-ecstatic appreciation of moving through my own volition – for myself and by myself – is propelling me. With each turn of the wheels, I am willingly melting into the world around me, carried away by this slow summer night. I pedal on. This is what post-partum freedom smells, looks, sounds and feels like.

Pedal, pedal. I am beaming from ear to ear. And the world is beaming back. A phone is ringing. I realise it’s mine. Brake. Stop. Babies crying. Time’s up. It was perfect while it lasted.

Until next time.

***

 The First Time by Aurélie Broeckerhoff appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

I PROTEST by Emily Way

The pieces in Dispatches from New Motherhood cover a wonderfully wide spectrum of the motherhood experience. In today’s offering, I PROTEST, Emily Way writes of attending a climate strike with her six-month-old daughter last summer in Bristol. It’s a vibrant, empowered piece of writing that shines a light on maternal mental health.

Emily says, ‘Despite trying to write positive poetic words about my pregnancy and newborn days I kept finding myself coming back to the postnatal depression I was living and the grim reality which came with it. It was obviously something I needed to write about, to process the complex emotions I was feeling, and I found it therapeutic. So it felt only natural to explore it in my final piece.’

Of the protest itself, Emily says, ‘I remember having to really build up the courage to go to that climate change march, and finding it so rewarding once I was there. It had been such an empowering experience, I wanted to write about it so that I could always remember the hope I had felt that day.’

‘As Hazel was my second child, the writing class provided me with precious time spent with my baby, just me and her. She loved the social interaction with other children her age, and I loved having a shared creative outlet during such an intense time.’

We’re delighted to share Emily’s powerful rallying cry here.

***

I Protest

Emily Way

It was a Monday morning in July 2019 and Bristol was in the midst of a heatwave. As I stepped off the bus I could hear the beating of samba drums echoing down the street. My heart, in response, was thumping wildly in my chest. With my baby strapped to my front, I headed towards the music, focusing solely on putting one foot in front of the other. 

I was on my way to join a climate strike over rising sea levels. A cause which will affect us all, but one especially poignant for parents of the next generation. Like my own mother, who had gone to Greenham Common whilst eight months pregnant with me, I wanted to share this with my daughter.

However, the reality of my current state was one of exhaustion. My baby was now six months old and since the beginning of my pregnancy I had experienced a relentless depression. Antenatal, into postnatal: each day it continued I was further immersed into darkness, and I was losing sight of a way out. The guilt this produced in me was unbearable. There was so much expectation: to be a good mum, a happy mum, an attentive mum. My protest wasn't just about rising sea levels. This was a way to channel my 'mum guilt' into something positive.

Bristol Bridge was teeming with activity, the atmosphere joyfully harmonious. It was a festival of colour and sound, a sensory experience no baby class could compete with. I ambled around at first, not knowing what to do with myself. Then as we watched the samba band, I found myself enjoying the rhythm, my body remembering the moves. I held my baby's hands in mine, and swayed, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. Lost in the crowd, surrounded by people, I felt freedom: freedom of speech, mind and body. There were no expectations of me, no judgement, just the knowledge that we were all there for the same reason, the same ethical morals, the same message. I felt thrilled for the first time in months.

It had only lasted minutes, but this experience had been a glimmer of light in the darkness – and it’d felt like a beacon of hope.

My daughter turned one recently and I am beginning to feel like myself again. The light is finding its way in more freely now, and I find myself noticing life, finding joy in the warmth it brings. There are still dark corners, but if I think back to that day, it gives me the strength to protest. I forgive myself and remember there is always a way out, I just have to find it. And the truth is, parenting can be like scrabbling around in the dark a lot of the time – so maybe carry a torch with you for a while, just in case.

***

I Protest by Emily Way appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

SOMETIMES YOU MUST LEAVE by Deanna Rodger

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is SOMETIMES YOU MUST LEAVE by Deanna Rodger, a lyrical, spirited and super smart account of a working mum’s thought processes.

‘What a ridiculous time for this particular piece of writing to be published,’ says Deanna, ‘literally as the world was going into lockdown and families were keeping up connection through technology such as FaceTime. Esme is now two and has a baby sister Asha, who was born during the lockdown. I wrote 'Sometimes You Must Leave’ whilst travelling back and forth to London for work each week at the beginning of this year.’ 

In rhythmic, lively prose, Deanna writes of the push and pull of motherhood. ‘It's really about the pressure to perform parenting. To perform priorities. The pressure to be in all places at once, and the brutal but basic realisation that my kid is absolutely fine both with, and without me (for short periods at least).’

Of Mothership, Deanna says, ‘I've always said the Mothership Writer's course saved my vibe! I moved to Bristol a month before giving birth to Esme and found the adjustment to a new city awkward similar to how I feel writing about pregnancy, birth, and postpartum stuff. It felt like I'd glided through it all unphased and had all my anxiety fixed on ensuring I maintained my career. I learnt that the most important thing is to be fully present wherever I am; when I am working I am working and when I am with my children I am completely with them.’

We’re delighted to share Deanna’s piece here. 

 ***

Sometimes You Must Leave

Deanna Rodger

Sometimes you must leave
before they wake up. Though you didn’t do the bedtime story and hardly did the bath, busy packing and repacking your bag. And the night feed was left to your partner and the baby was at nursery the whole of the day before and you won’t return until tomorrow, after they are asleep. And the best that you can do is scribble love, in all the ways the dawn will give light to, on a green post-it note with red pen and hand-drawn emojis. And this is your parenting and partnership: lingering past the leave time of half seven in the hope you hear her wake. Or him wake. So you can hug and wave and kiss and hug tight again. But they don’t. And you wouldn’t want them to anyway. You’re relieved to leave unseen because it’s best not to have face time when you are going away. Slamming the cord in the front door feeling it pull taut with every step along the alley. It’s best not to FaceTime when you are away.

Best not to send signals of your journeys on trains, pushing their way out of the station into days daring to become themselves after months of light sleep and occupied rest. It’s best to stick to texts or nothing at all unless it's an emergency, or incredibly visually funny, and even then check first that the baby is not near or within earshot, because homesickness is a virus.

When you miss your lovers and your loved ones and share this misery with them, you depend on them to make you better and you call or FaceTime with expectations of a connection that will alleviate an affliction which can be remedied by nothing other than returning. But you can’t right then. So you hang up as the chat shrivels and falls like a week-old umbilical cord and you each have to get yourselves back into where you were and what you were doing and that can be difficult for an adult.

Now, a toddler is blissfully unapologetically present; playing and playing and playing until they get distracted with something they might want more and then they want that, especially if they can’t. And you know they don’t fully understand hazards and heights so you put safety sockets in, remove the choking hazards, fix stair gates and keep clean their hands and toys and do not call and ask to ‘speak’ to the toddler. They can’t grasp ‘she’s not really here’; when the screen goes black, they only want more of what they can’t have. And in the best-case scenario they ignore your ‘hello’s and ‘hiya baby’s because they simply don’t give a shit. So, mainly for your benefit, do not FaceTime the kid. You wanna see them? Ask for pics.

***

Sometimes You Must Leave by Deanna Rodger appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

OUR FIRST YEAR by Maria Hodson

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood treat is a sequence of three poems – OUR FIRST YEAR – by Maria Hodson. In MORNING, DISCOVERY, and WISDOM Maria writes beautifully and intimately of those first moments upon waking, of wonders big and small, and of a mother’s message to her son.

Maria says, ‘I'd had a foggy sense during early motherhood of having lost myself, and of feeling very grey, but when I came to reread my work, I found there was much more clarity and joy in my outlook than I had realised at the time. I hope these offerings can be a reminder that there is beauty in motherhood, even when days can feel exhaustingly repetitive and mundane, and that there are quiet rewards, although our work often takes place without recognition.’

Of her writing process, Maria says ‘Once I got into the swing of the course, I wrote as often as possible - during Finn's naps, in the morning, late at night - especially whenever I noticed a powerful or difficult feeling rising up.’ At the end of the course Maria typed up all of the work that she’d produced in the sessions, creating a file. ‘It really helped me to navigate the turbulent waters of new motherhood, and I am proud to have a rich, honest and raw body of work that documents my first year and more with Finn. It's unedited and it's not always easy for me to read, but it exists, and that is wonderful.’

We’re delighted to share Maria’s tender – and wonderful – trio of poems here.

***

Our First Year
Maria Hodson

Morning

You stir and babble,
Little experiments of voice and breath.
I hear each call clearly; 
The happy chatter, the plaintive cry.
Please sleep.
Rest is so sweet …
But for you, action is best.
It is morning by your clock.
I lie in the dark, willing your return to the deep, 
While listening as you greet the world.
For now, you are happy with the sound
Of your voice in the silence,
Entranced by your baby notes
In the great beyond.
I wait until you begin to call for me – 
Not by name but by intonation –
And despite my exhaustion, 
I answer your plea for our day to begin.    

Discovery

You now know the moon
And point it out in books and from the street
On those winter mornings and early nights
When it shines on.
Crescent, circle, sliver,
Wispy or fulsome.
You also show me clocks
And spoons of all sizes,
Aeroplanes and birds:
Crows, seagulls, pigeons,
A jay, if we’re lucky.
You notice mugs and want to hold them,
Unaware of the dangers that lurk within.
Hot tea!
You like illustrations of mice and snails and caterpillars;
And, perhaps most of all, you love lights,
The orbs that hang from above and illuminate your world.

Wisdom

Be strong, be wise, be fair,
Be brave, be bold, be true,
Be light, be bright, be clear,
Be calm, be still, be you.

***
Our First Year by Maria Hodson appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

WHEN I GAVE BIRTH by Imogen Schäfer

This week we have an extraordinary poem for you from Dispatches from New Motherhood; Imogen Schäfer’s WHEN I GAVE BIRTH is a bravely honest and incredibly moving account of the birth of her daughter.

‘I hadn't initially planned to write about my birth experience,’ says Imogen. ‘It felt somehow too soon to try to put down in words the trauma of waking up in Intensive Care after my labour, with no clue as to why I was there or where my baby was. But whenever I began trying to write about any other aspect of motherhood, nothing felt quite right; nothing flowed. With some reluctance, I started writing about my birth experience, and the words just started pouring out. To my surprise, it turned out that writing about the birth of my daughter was actually the exact thing I needed to begin to process the trauma of it all.’

Imogen goes on to say, ‘I wrote in the evenings once my baby was sleeping and I will always remember those evenings with real fondness and gratitude that the act of writing (and having a deadline!) gave me the space I needed to begin to heal.’ 

Imogen joined Mothership Writers in her last trimester of pregnancy, and returned to our workshops just a month after her daughter’s birth. Her beautifully expressed poem – the first she’s written – is a feat of strength, and we’re honoured to share it with you here.

 ***

When I Gave Birth

Imogen Schäfer

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
I fall clumsily around the words, trying to find a way of telling
how you came to be in the world
that doesn’t feel
like a falsehood.

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
It sounds deceitful –
too proactive –
for such a passive act.
The slicing open of my skin,
the tearing through muscle and sinew,
to rip out a baby
caught unawares.

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
72 hours of labour is somehow not enough
to earn the right to say,
'I birthed my baby'
when in reality,
someone else gave birth to you
tore you
from your warm cocoon.
I don’t even know their name.

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
It seems misleading 
when my first sight of you
was in a stranger’s arms
instead of mine.
I tried to reach up to stroke your newborn foot
but found my limbs paralysed.
'It’s a girl', your dad sobbed
as you were both rushed away
from the developing emergency –
the heavy shock of adrenaline
delaying my screams to have my baby back
on my chest
where she belonged.

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
How can I have given birth to someone
when I was barely alive?
Heart in shutdown,
lungs collapsing.
Hurried talk of hysterectomy
and how to save my life
while all I could do was lie bleeding
and wonder,
where has it gone wrong?
before the theatre lights faded
and shut off
into darkness;
my long-held dreams of our serene first meeting
stolen, without remorse.

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
Waking up in a room I’ve never seen,
a sea of blue pleated curtain,
my mother appears as a blur amongst the waves.
Unrelenting thuds of pain
and no sign of a baby,
only Star Trek screens and a deflated belly
covered by the cheap fabric of a hospital gown.
A deep sense of unease
spread over my limbs
like spilt oil;
the tube down my throat
suffocating any attempt to speak
or scream
or sob.

I still haven’t said, 'When I gave birth'.
After they told me you were safe,
my first question
was
‘Do I still have my womb?’
My fingers, heavy with sedation,
trying their best to move
across the laminated alphabet card,
to spell out questions
whose weight
I could not yet fully understand.

And then.

The sickening crack of comprehension
and a wrenching in my gut so powerful,
it reached up
and tore at my throat
when I realised
your first seconds, minutes, days
of life
had been lived without me.
After nine months of just us,
how could 50 strangers have known
the colour of your eyes
before I did.

But despite the fact
I’ve still not found the words to say
how you came to be in this world,
I can at least say
I gave birth to the wildest, fiercest, most potent love
I have ever known.

***

When I Gave Birth by Imogen Schäfer appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

THEN MY BABY CAME ALONG by Beth Talbot

In this week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece, Beth Talbot movingly reflects on how her self-identity has changed since becoming a mother.

Beth says ‘many people (quite rightly!) feel that they lose part of their identity when they become a parent. However, I found it to have the opposite effect.’ Beth goes on to say, ‘I had a very misspent youth. Doing things that never felt right, or wholesome and I didn’t have a strong sense of who I was - my only identity was that of a “wreck head”. Becoming a mother has allowed me to develop an identity I like - I enjoy being this version of myself. I feel like being a mother, and being a Mothership Writer and honing my creative side, has given me an identity I am finally proud of.’ 

In vivid, rhythmic prose Beth writes of the before, the after, and her evolving selfhood in this beautifully honest piece.

***

Then My Baby Came Along

Beth Talbot

I have spent so many nights unhappy and drunk. Once out, I never wanted to go home to my old curtains and second-hand mattress. I was so afraid of that empty room, of being with myself. 

My nights were always the same. At 9pm I’d walk in to the same dingy, damp bar, the pungent smell of beer surrounding me. My friends were usually there, spending the evening drinking and talking shit, with stale cigarette breath, until closing time. I would join in, piping up with my opinions – whilst drinking and drinking and drinking. 

At 2am we would move on to another bar. This place always felt like a battleground with high and drunk casualties shouting at each other, dancing, fighting to have a good time. The music had changed from soulful songs to heavy house, and the beat thumped away, taking me further and further with it. 

5am was kick-out time, with people hailing taxis and calling it a night. But not me. With the fear of that empty room looming over me like a thunder-cloud, I would find the dregs that were having an afterparty and tag along. I could be in any area of the city, Hotwells through to Fishponds, looking round a room full of strangers, not knowing anyone, not even knowing myself. More lost and alone than as if I were on a moon of a planet no one had heard of. 

Finally, at 6am, when the booze and fags had run out, and people were collapsing onto sofas, or passing out upstairs, I would finally go home, to that empty room. 

Then my baby came along.

There is a new 2am now. 2am is when I wake from watching dreams and attend to your snuffly grumbling – you need your midnight milk. We have both had half our night's sleep, we are over the hump, and are snoozily coming back down the other side to morning.

There is a new 5am now. 5am is when you wake and I bring you in to my sleep space, my matriarchal bed. Your warm fingers knead my skin and I feed you groggily and milkily back to sleep, for one more hour. 

There is a new 6am now. The time that used to end my nights is now the time I start my day. This is the best time. You are my 6am, taking me from the dark of night and placing me into the light of morning.

With you I have become wholesome, I am natural, I am who I am meant to be. Although I don’t always know what I am doing, and the responsibilities are heavy – sometimes I cannot fulfil them all – I feel a peace with you I have never felt before. I feel at home.

You have become my home, and there is no empty room anymore.

 ***

Then My Baby Came Along by Beth Talbot appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

99 DAYS IN NICU by Jo Milano

Anyone who’s familiar with the Bristol skyline will know the St Michael’s hospital chimney. After reading this week’s piece from Dispatches from New Motherhood we can guarantee you won’t look at it in the same way again.

In the incredibly affecting 99 DAYS IN NICU, Mothership Writer Jo Milano reflects on the time her firstborn child spent in the Neonatal Intensive Care unit at St Michael’s. With controlled and highly visual prose, Jo conveys the pain of leaving her daughter every night, the milestones as time passes – and what the chimney comes to symbolise.

Of Mothership Writers, Jo says ‘the course gave me the space and time to be creative again. I found that my baby responded really well to the calm focused atmosphere in the room and played really happily. We both came away from the sessions feeling upbeat. It was such an inclusive and accepting environment. I am so grateful to have rediscovered my love of writing.’

And we’re very grateful that Jo was willing to share her story.

***

99 Days in NICU
Jo Milano

The hospital incinerator chimney stands out from the city skyline. This is the story of how he became my Sentinel.

Outside it’s a bright blue morning in early autumn. I’m at work, in the loo, 26 weeks pregnant, and I'm bleeding and shaking. That evening I have an emergency caesarean. I'm numb, yet I can feel when my daughter pops out of my womb clean as an avocado stone.

She is hurried away in an incubator to NICU. I lie empty. I’m sewn back together and wheeled to a private room that looks out to the hospital incinerator chimney. It is now the darkest part of the night. Two small red lights shine out near the top of the chimney and we watch each other with our red eyes until dawn.

I walk to meet her for the first time once morning has broken and my legs are working. She is tiny and translucent. Covered in wires and monitors, and breathing with a tube down her throat. Naked except for a square of bubble wrap the size of a crisp packet for a blanket. My heart explodes.

The following night I shuffle back to her. Barefoot, in surgical stockings, blood stains on my t-shirt, colostomy bag hooked on my waistband. I want to be with her to celebrate her first 24 hours alive. I will take every anniversary I can.

The next day I’m discharged and I go home that night. Leaving her hurts like a deep horror. I walk out through the hospital doors into the night air. Looking up I see the chimney rising up into the stars. The Sentinel. His red eyes watch me go.

From the upstairs window at home I can see the Sentinel. He marks the centre of my new world. I curl up on my bed and howl. He stands vigil for me until dawn when I rush back to her.

I have become wild and alert and pace around her incubator growling at anyone who disturbs her. A leaflet for the hospital psychiatric services appears next to her charts.

At night I leave again and he watches over her.

A month later she reaches a kilo in weight and we bring chocolate cake into the hospital to celebrate.

He watches over her.

I express so much milk that we have to buy a new freezer to store it in.

He watches over her.

Winter storms blow through.

He watches over her.

She breathes by herself.

He watches over her.

One day, when the Christmas decorations are up, all of her monitors are disconnected and I can finally pick her up and turn in a circle without becoming tangled. Holding her to my chest and gently spinning, tears fall onto her soft bald head. We are no longer tethered to the hospital.

In the New Year I carry her out into the fresh air for the first time. The Sentinel stands there proud as a new parent and I thank him for a final time.

***

 99 Days in NICU by Jo Milano appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.

CHOOSE TODAY by H.P.

This week’s offering from Dispatches from New Motherhood is a powerful and moving piece of self-reflection. In CHOOSE TODAY, H.P. writes of the pressures placed on mental health, and takes us directly into her daughter’s world – and her own.

‘I wrote my piece as a promise to my daughter to try to keep going even through the hard times and to remember how important her world is and to not let my problems overtake it – and as a message/ a reminder to myself of the mum that I want to be,’ says H.P. ‘It was written with the intention of reading it on the days when I am struggling. I knew that if it was in print it would be more effective than a journal entry and that I could read it back and be reminded of that first year of Motherhood and the strong Mum I could envisage myself being.’ 

H.P. lets us in on her process, saying that she realised she had to ‘let a lot of stuff out’ to enable her to focus on what she wanted to write. ‘As a lone parent I didn't get much time to write outside of the class, my piece was written during nap times and late at night while my 14 month old daughter was asleep. I wrote many drafts, I slept very little, I started again on new pieces and then edited those drafts countless times. I wrote thousands of words, I cried a lot, and I felt the most connected with myself than I had in a long time.’

CHOOSE TODAY is a briliantly honest and empowering piece of writing about the emotional challenges of motherhood, and the importance of engaging with the ‘now’.

***

CHOOSE TODAY

H.P.

There are moments, mornings, whole days where I feel consumed with worry and fear. 

There are moments, mornings, whole days where I feel consumed with affection and gratitude. 

Both states lead to the same outcome: I care for you, I love you, and I stay. I don't run. Until you, I had always been able to run. 

You challenge my inner critic, my indecisiveness, all my bad habits. No other person in my life would get away with it. And for these hours no other job would be worth the pay.

You're my tiny snotty resident mindfulness guru. When my thoughts get dark there you are looking up at me, roaring like a dinosaur; there you are saying 'up' for a cuddle; there you are waking from a nap and immediately launching into a sleepy series of all the animal noises you can do – which I have to get on film because that shit could go viral. 

There you are. And, suddenly, I'm here too.

Your world is bananas, muddy puddles, Iggle Piggle and the animal street art we wave at around Bristol. You want me to build towers with you, to laugh with you, to put my phone down, to look at you, to stop reading about Brexit or Megxit. To play 70s pop music, to swap the normal light bulb for the dizzy disco red, green and blue spinning one and dance around the room like a monkey. To pick you up and take you into the garden and show you the trains going past the garden fence. You want me to acknowledge your Choo Choos. You want convincing surprised expressions every time you reveal yourself from under a blanket that's barely covering you. To let you poke around my mouth with my toothbrush even if I'm tired, even if the bathroom tiles are cold and my legs are bare, even if it's 9.30pm and you should be in bed and I've had a day of feeling hopeless and lost. Even then. 

This is your world, those are your priorities, my worries and fears are not. And that's exactly as it should be. 

You need me to be a carer, a friend, a teacher, a performer, a provider. You need me to fight for a life lived with honesty and authenticity. To find my voice, so that I can be there for you when you're finding yours. 

I still think about the days when I had the freedom to live selfishly, and the opportunity to escape and detach. 

Before you, I could tell myself, 'I'll try and be something tomorrow, I'll do something important and meaningful tomorrow.' I rarely did. 

To know that, today, I could always run, used to be my safety, my security, and my restraint. 

I didn't know courage and strength until I fell pregnant with you. And in choosing you, I had to finally, after years of 'tomorrows', choose today.

***

Choose Today by H.P. appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.