PARADIDDLE by Helena Hoyle King

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood gem is PARADIDDLE by Helena Hoyle King, an intensely moving, lyrical and original poem. The author begins with pregnancy, then takes us into her experience on the NICU, through a richly evoked soundscape.

Helena says, ‘A prominent memory of meeting my newborn on the NICU was of the particular sounds, which at first I found disorientating, but which eventually settled into a peculiar music unique to the NICU. With my poem I wanted to create a positive auditory memory of my baby’s first days, linking his rhythm-section kicks in the womb to his incubator symphony.’

Of her process, Helena says, ‘Writing and reading with a baby who doesn’t sleep at night or nap in the day is hard. During Mothership Writers I developed a tool-kit for future writing, which I can play with as my toddler does plenty of sleeping now!’

Enjoy Helena’s wonderful poem here.

***

Paradiddle

Helena Hoyle King

Paradiddle, NOUN, a group of four drum beats produced by using alternate sticks in the pattern right-left-right-right or left-right-left-left

It’s the kick-drum of a pickle, your own perfect paradiddle
keeping tempo we await you, drumming fingers in four time.
I can feel you syncopate
the rolling hiccups as you land
your whole head towards my pelvis, an elbow in my ribcage;
muffled-up percussion in a timpani globe.

A hand upon my belly gently feeling your 16 beat
you’re a soloist rehearsing now preparing for The Show.
Left – right – left – left – paradiddle, paradiddle.
Right – left – right – right.

You are born into a tiptoe hush of rubbing towels and latex gloves,
it’s too long before we first hear you cry.
I see you beyond the glass walls, a glissando of tears,
as for the first time I feel like
I’ve lost the beat. 

Nestled in your NICU nest of monitors and feeding tubes,
searching for my baby tangled with the white machines,
I hear the bleeping of your heart.
The descant ‘you can touch him’ rings out
octaves on a cymbal star:
we marvel at the rise and fall of your chest.

This was not in rehearsal, you’re a solo turned ensemble,
a piccolo subsumed by the low brass; I try to tune in to your breath.
The sounds in this ward are bin lids – pen clicks – hand soap – water,
hushed consultations and a thousand tangled wires.
I listen for my mini metronome.

You are placed into my arms, CPAP sounding out a ‘shhhh’,
I’m fixated by your every tiny breath.
Now unplugged from the machinery, you’re rapturous and world-changing,
right – left – right – right
left – right – left –left
little pickle paradiddle play on.

 ***

Paradiddle by Helena Hoyle King 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 DON'T WANT YOUR ADVICE by Kate Saunders-White

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood offering is I DON’T WANT YOUR ADVICE, an impassioned and rhythmic poem by Kate Saunders-White. It’s both retort and plea – and bristles with energy.

Kate says, ‘It's a bit angry this one! It's not really autobiographical - it was inspired by comments made to other mum friends as well as to myself. I was surprised from my conversations with them just how much unsolicited advice we had all received at some point, not only from close family members or friends, but even strangers we happened to meet while out and about with our babies! I wish I could have covered more but the examples in the piece were the ones I remembered most clearly in my heavily-pregnant brain fog.’

Of her process, Kate says, ‘Finding the opportunity to write was a challenge, not only because of a very active toddler but I was also expecting baby number 2 at the time and finding the pregnancy really difficult for various reasons. When I did manage to write though it felt wonderful. I remember comparing it to going to the gym - in the madness of life it sometimes feels impossible to find the time or energy, but once you seize any opportunity you can, you feel all the more invigorated for it.’

Here’s to writing-gym-time! And enjoy Kate’s brilliantly rousing poem here.

***

I Don't Want Your Advice 
Kate Saunders-White

I don't want your advice. 

You see me bleary eyed, hugging coffee,
trying to summon energy from some corner of my body.
You ask how she's sleeping, and I don't feel like lying.
Who would I be kidding? I'd give it away by crying.
She's up every two hours. Has been for weeks.
I'm broken. From spending my nights being constantly woken.
You then ponder aloud on why she won't sleep:
maybe I should be waiting, giving her a chance to sort herself out, 
and not running to her the moment she shouts.
But the thought of ignoring her cries,
the sound of her panic when no one arrives. 
I just can't. 
And you smile a smile that says I'm a soft touch.
That I've only myself to blame.
That I've forfeited any right to complain.

I don't want your advice. 

You see me struggling to breastfeed, baby thrashing in a craze,  
and her face red and angry, my cheeks set ablaze.
I try to laugh it off, but inside I'm weeping, 
that she's clearly hungry but just won't stop screeching, 
I will it not to happen but you question nonetheless: 
Have you ever thought it would be easier to express? 
Or you could try formula, your husband could use that through the night.
And she's nearly six months anyway, so you'll be stopping soon, right? 
Well, feeding was a battle from that first day on the ward.
And I'm not trying to say I deserve some sort of award
for getting where we are. But I've really tried my best, 
even if the effort sometimes made me possessed.
It's taken literal blood. Real tears. Real sweat.
So I tell you, yeah, it wouldn't hurt, but we won't be stopping yet. 

I don't want your advice. 

Because really, what do I want? All I want is to moan.
And for some kind of kinship as I travel the unknown. 
I want an anchor. A life raft. Someone who tells me that it's hard.
That they get it. They know that I'm doing the best that I can.
Life feels relentless but that won't always be the way.
I promise not to even mind if they throw in the old cliché: 
'This too shall pass.' 
And the truth is, really, no solution is required:
all I want is to say that I'm SO bloody tired! 

I don't need your advice. 
And you don't need mine. 
What I need is support and time.

 ***

I Don’t Want Your Advice by Kate Saunders-White 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.

BORN IN LOCKDOWN project update – supporting Sands

We’re delighted to announce that Mothership will be supporting Sands with our BORN IN LOCKDOWN project. While Born in Lockdown will be free for anyone to download, we’d love it if readers were able to make a voluntary donation. Sands is the leading stillbirth and neonatal death charity in the UK. Sands exists to reduce the number of babies dying and to ensure that anyone affected by the death of a baby receives the best possible care and support for as long as they need it. To find out more visit the Sands website.

Juliette Boakes, part of our Mothership crew and Born in Lockdown contributor says, ‘Sands is a wonderful charity very dear to my heart. In autumn 2018 my son Daniel was stillborn and Sands provided invaluable support to me at this time and throughout my subsequent pregnancy.’

Juliette goes go on to say, ‘Pregnancy after a loss is incredibly stressful and with the onset of the Coronavirus pandemic the anxiety was often overwhelming. Throughout my pregnancy I was suffering with PTSD which made hospital appointments and scans extremely triggering. As the pandemic progressed I had to face these and the early stages of labour alone. With immense gratitude and a tremendous sigh of relief our beautiful daughter Chloe was born safely in May 2020. A little sister to our beloved Daniel.’

Of #borninlockdownproject, Juliette says,‘The Born in Lockdown project for me was a way to process what I had been through in pregnancy and as a new mum during the pandemic. Contributing to this creative and collaborative project was an opportunity to document a very unique moment in time. It also provided a wonderful feeling of community during what was, and still is, a very isolating time as a new mother.’

BORN IN LOCKDOWN will be released on 23rd February 2021. We hope that it will be shared far and wide, raising money for this important charity as well as giving an extraordinary insight into what it’s like to be a new mum in this unreal time.

BORN IN LOCKDOWN project update – cover reveal

Born in Lockdown is a one-of-a-kind story with 277 authors and one shared experience: becoming a new mother in 2020.

The coronavirus pandemic has intensified what is already a challenging time for many, making the need for self-expression ever more vital; the Born in Lockdown collaborative writing project grew out of this recognition. It was launched in November by novelist and Mothership founder Emylia Hall, and was for mums who’d given birth that same year. The idea was to encourage writing for pleasure and purpose: to find, amidst the clamour, the space to hear one’s own voice. And, together, to tell the story of what it was like to navigate new motherhood in 2020.

A call-out for participants resulted in 277 new mums taking part, each writing in a fragmentary style – using no more than a handful of connected sentences. The joy of fragments is that they can be scribbled down when time permits; they reflect the flitting nature of our thoughts – allowing us to capture moments that might otherwise be lost; and best of all they feel accessible and achievable. The project was open to all – no prior writing experience was necessary – and anyone who wanted to be included was included. It was Emylia’s job, and great privilege, to find the narrative threads and stitch together this vast patchwork of experience; a whole, made of many, many small parts. All of the writers’ words appear verbatim and unedited – and every single one deserves to be read.

Born in Lockdown is a remarkable record of new motherhood at this time; an unflinchingly honest and moving account, where – despite the pain and hardship – resilience and love and hope shine through.

It’ll be released on 23rd February 2021, and will be available to download here on the Mothership website. We’ll soon be announcing our charity partner, as we’d love it if readers were able to make a voluntary donation.

Big thanks to the super talented Esther Curtis for designing our amazing cover. It so perfectly captures the collaborative spirit of our project, and our Mothership values of creativity, community, and wellbeing.

THREE POEMS by Sara Turner

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood treat is a beautiful trio of poems from Sara Turner. In Facts of Life, Sara reflects on the enormity of motherhood, so unfathomable before giving birth, and its physical and emotional impacts. Growing is a perfectly formed and spirited message to her child. And in Mother’s Words the mother as writer speaks, in what is an incredibly moving and wonderfully expressed poem: ‘But my words, they are my soul.’ Altogether, Three Poems is an intimate and soulful collection, with a mother’s love beaming through.

 ***

Three Poems
Sara Turner

Facts of Life

I created our world.
Nobody told me that this is what motherhood is.
That I would hold your story in my hands, my body.

I gave birth to your world and my own.
Nobody told me that your arrival would split me apart.
That after uncounted stitches, I would shield you from such breakages.

When you were newly born, I was your world.
Nobody told me the stomach-tumbling enormity of you.
That I would be all you needed.

Now, baby, you are my world.
Everybody told me this would happen, but I didn’t believe them.
That this tiny body of mine could swell with such pride.

Growing

Grow wild,
Little one,
Don’t grow up.
You are small in stature
(For now)
But mighty in spirit.
Don’t limit your ambition to height.
Lift your feet from the ground,
Little bird.
Fly.

Mother’s Words

When I die, scatter my ashes far and wide,
But hold onto my words.

My ashes will be nothing.
Skin and bone.

But my words,
Well, they are my soul.

Find these scribblings.
Keep them close, they are your inheritance.

In every curve, dot and line
I have laid down a piece of myself.

Remember the sweet words, when I was soft, the most.
These will keep you warm at night.

As for the hard ones, forget them until you need them.
Remember these when you must be a warrior – they will give you strength.

***

Three Poems by Sara Turner 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 JOURNEY by Grace Harris-Johnson

This week our Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is THE JOURNEY by Grace Harris-Johnson, an evocative and moving and account of the author’s experience with IVF. In tender, honest prose, Grace describes the long road that led to her daughter’s birth.

Grace says ‘I wanted to write about this aspect of becoming a mother as for so long I felt like I was keeping a secret, but then once I reached motherhood, I began to meet so many women who had been through similar to me. I wanted other women to feel that no matter their difficulties they are not alone and there is always someone, somewhere who has felt and been through something similar.’

Of her process, Grace says ‘writing allowed me to consolidate my feelings and experiences allowing me to reflect and feel proud about what I had to endure, and proud of the wonderful 2.5 year old I was able to produce despite all my difficulties.’

Through THE JOURNEY, Grace’s hope, belief and resilience shines through.

 ***

 The Journey

Grace Harris-Johnson

I heard you cry the moment you were born, but they carried you away to the other side of the room. Although I could not see or touch you I knew you were going to be OK as your cry never weakened. Soon you would be back by my side like you were meant to be. I knew, because it was not the first time you had been taken away. 

The idea of you was conceived by the sea, a year and a day from when your dad and I made our vows to love, protect and to cherish each other. The journey began in Cambodia; we travelled through a storm eventually arriving in 'Paradise', a collection of huts on the beach, with white golden sand and sand-flies that nipped at our feet. It is a place where, when the rain stops and the sun sets, the moon rises bringing the phosphorescent plankton to life like diamonds coming in to shore. Here, I turned to your dad and said, 'Let's do it, let’s have a baby.'

The memories that follow are a haze, shrouded by heartbreak, loss and hormones. I was broken, shattered into a million pieces and laid out for all to see. IVF was our last resort: the egg collection fell on the same week, four years after we had married. It was hell. But they said they would call and they did. The eggs had fertilised, we had done our job and you were real. Another call, this time even more hopeful, the cells were dividing and looking good. Another call, I could barely breathe ... nine embryos. This was three less than we had originally started with: just three more little black holes added to my heart. 

They took you away from me and kept you safe in a lab. It would be almost two months until you were with me again, however you were never alone, surrounded by your siblings that I will never meet. There was another miscarriage that led to a pause, a hiatus from when life began until life could continue. Your growth was frozen in time, until my body, my mind and my heart were ready to continue – this time with you. I often wonder what life was like for you then, whether the strength and wisdom I see in your eyes is a consequence of all you experienced before you were born. I believe that your spirit continued to grow, that those little ones who came before you helped to give you strength. Your great-grandmother and grandma were guiding you; until it was time for us to be back together. 

From that day on, the holes in my heart began to close and my life began to make sense all over again. I had proof that the world really is full of magic and you, my little one – as your small palm clasps mine, as you ask for a cuddle, and giggle as you are tickled – are a perfect example of that.

***

The Journey by Grace Harris-Johnson 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.

Happy Birthday to us!

Mothership Writers is two years old today. Here I take the chance to reflect – like a doting mum – on some milestones and highlights, from conception to fully-fledged toddlerhood.

I officially launched Mothership Writers on 10th January 2019, with a call-out for new mums to join a free 25-session creative writing programme here in Bristol, made possible by funding from Arts Council England and the National Lottery. Despite my belief in the idea, I didn’t know how it would be received in reality. When I was planning Mothership, I couldn’t find anything else like it out there – was that because new mums and creative writing just didn’t mix? The inspiration for the project came purely from my own experience – and a desire to share my love, and gratitude, for writing. I’d been in the middle of working on my third novel (which coincidentally featured a new mother) when my son was born in 2014, and I found that more than ever I relished the space that writing gave me – the freedom and control that otherwise felt in such short supply. I strongly felt that new motherhood was a seismic experience that demanded to be written about, and that the benefits of putting pen to paper were there for all, not just for seasoned writers, or people who were already used to seeing personal experience as creative possibility. Patriarchal society has long expected us to regard motherhood as something ordinary when it is anything but; as the poet Carrie Fountain said, ‘if men could have babies, there would be no other subject of poetry. It is the most remarkable thing that happens on planet Earth, and they can’t do it.’

Back to the project launch: I’d allowed three months to fill the programme, but within 24 hours the first 40 places had been snapped up. It unequivocally showed that there wasn’t just an interest in writing among new mums, there was a need: a strong desire for self-expression, and evidence of the rich relationship between creativity and maternity. I added a third group to the programme, funding it myself, but gratefully aided by a grant from the Literature Works Annual Fund, and prioritised mums from under-represented audiences. I remember being in the cafe of our East Bristol venue, St Werburghs Community Centre, my phone pinging with enquiry after enquiry, and thinking oh wow, this is ON.

 In April 2019, the first Mothership workshop took place, with eighteen mums and seventeen babies in the room. The week before I’d mentioned the endeavour to another author and writing teacher – a man, as it happens – and he’d laughed: he thought it was insane. I remember stopping during that first session and thinking my god, this is actually working and then I knew it would! The workshops were roughly split in half; first focusing on the craft of creative writing, then on writing motherhood itself; the atmosphere was chilled, but no less industrious. On the way home I saw a tweet from one of the group, Amy, saying Mothership was a ‘feminist utopia’ and I walked the three miles back home to South Bristol with an absurdly large grin on my face.

Our second venue for the pilot programme was Windmill Hill City Farm, and in warm weather our room held onto all the heat of the day so we threw open the windows; more often than not, these Friday afternoon sessions had a subtle background soundtrack of baaing sheep. When I think of workshops at the farm there’s sunshine pouring through the windows, pens scratching across pages, soft gurgles and burbles of babies ­– and utter peace. Of course it got noisy sometimes, but nowhere near as loud as you might think. Some days I wish I could have recorded it; bottled it. Thinking of it now – meeting inside as a group of fifteen or twenty people (plus babes), passing babies between us, sitting on blankets on the floor writing as if at a picnic – it feels like a distant dream.

That first spring, in May 2019, we also held a Mothership Inspiration Day at the city farm, a free event for mums on the 100-strong waiting list. I ran workshops, and I was grateful to amazing author friends Emma Stonex and Lucy Clarke for coming and talking about what it was like to write their novels while mothering newborns. Through the whole of the pilot programme we were lucky to have extra baby cuddlers in our sessions, specifically writers Rosie Walsh, Jen Faulkner, and Meg Williams, who so generously gave their time every fortnight. And in November 2019 one of our crew, poet Deanna Rodger, ran three amazing poetry sessions for us, and I loved handing over the proverbial mic, borrowing a baby and opening my notebook.

Over that first year I got to know the most incredible and inspiring group of women, and saw at first-hand how transformative writing can be. Bristol had 58 card-carrying Mothership Writers then, and we made it to 24 of the 25-session programme before the first lockdown hit. When the time came for everyone to turn in their written pieces for the final anthology I was blown away by the stories they were willing to share. I knew that people were writing through not just sleep-deprivation, but depression, anxiety, birth trauma, bereavement, break-ups; the resilience and grace was humbling. Editing those fifty works of poetry and prose through March 2020 was a privilege – and a challenge I felt lucky to take on. What a distraction, too, from all that was happening in the world at the time. Through April, I was working on the design and lay-up with our mega talented Mothership artist Esther Curtis – who has been such an important part of this journey from day one – and planning the production schedule. Our finished book, Dispatches from New Motherhood, is truly a labour of love. While we got our crew together on Zoom, we haven’t forgotten that we’re owed a proper gathering: to raise a glass to our beautiful book, and each other.

By this time, I was in no doubt as to how important Mothership Writers was to me. It was a constant source of joy and enrichment, and it’d already taught me so much too. The pilot programme was over, as was the funding, and I knew if I wanted Mothership to live on, we had to go online and stand on our own two feet. On 1st June I launched the first season of 8-week courses, set to take place from July. It was important to me to make it accessibly priced – in line with baby groups, rather than creative writing courses – with one fully subsidised place for someone who couldn’t otherwise afford to take part, for every seven paid places. The courses sold out within two days. We were up and running!

It was amazing to realise that we still had the same sense of community and intimacy in the online sessions, and cool to note that in the comfort of their own homes, a lot of mums took the hour-long sessions as time for themselves; there were fewer babies in the mix than in the face-to-face workshops. Testimonials described it as ‘a spa for the soul’, ‘a gift’, ‘a lifeline’. And it meant a lot when a mum of colour said how much she appreciated the diversity of the course content. Our last sessions of the summer and autumn courses were emotional: despite the shorter course length, and our groups never having met in real life, bonds were made, stories shared, and tears flowed. Four post-Mothership book clubs have since launched (which I love, love, love).

In October we made 30 copies of the super limited edition Dispatches from New Motherhood available, with every penny from the sales (after postage) going to Baby Bank Network, helping to buy baby essentials for families in need. The books sold out in just one morning, and we raised £258 for this brilliant charity.

In November 2020 I ran my 100th workshop for Mothership and, in keeping with the strange times, it was a chilly al fresco session from my sister-in-law’s garden; I couldn’t go in the house as her son’s year group were self-isolating, I couldn’t zoom from my own as a neighbourhood joker had snipped our internet cable. I drank coffee, ate a Tunnock’s bar, and held my umbrella over my laptop when it started raining. I was aglow.

With the second lockdown in November, I wanted to do something to acknowledge the particularly tough circumstances that new mums in 2020 have faced. BORN IN LOCKDOWN is a collaborative writing project that encouraged new mums to keep a daily account of their experiences through writing short fragments of prose, (a style inspired by such works as Jenny Offill’’s Dept. of Speculation, Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts, and the video app 1 Second Everyday). The response to the call-out was amazing, and once again I was reminded not just of people’s desire to write, but the importance of providing encouraging spaces and opportunities to do so. The finished piece will be launched next month, available as a free PDF download, with a voluntary donation to charity. I can tell you now – basically because none of the writing is mine – it’s going to be stunning. 276 new mums have taken part – 276! – and their words used verbatim. It’s been my job to weave together the fragments, to find the narrative threads and create a patchwork of both individual and shared experience. I’m so proud of this project. Stay tuned for more on BORN IN LOCKDOWN coming very soon.

Meanwhile to kickstart 2021 I ran a one-off Inspiration Session on Zoom, with 40 writing mums taking part: an hour of creative energisation! Something it feels we all need now more than ever. In a couple of weeks, the winter courses will begin, where we’re set to welcome 48 new writers to our ever-growing crew. I can’t wait, and, two years on, I still come away from every session buzzing.

I’m so grateful to everyone who’s supported Mothership along the way, from the friends and project partners who first gave invaluable advice and ideas, to the Arts Council and Literature Works for initial funding, and brilliantly supportive people in the writing community (and the ever-growing creative mothers community). Above all, I want to thank all those who’ve written with us; the mums who’ve taken a leap to try something new, at a time when sleep is scant, other demands are plenty, and life is tumultuous. You show up with open notebooks and open hearts, ready to write, connect, and share – and you’re amazing. My little son said I should turn up on all of your doorsteps with cake. I wish I could! Happy Birthday, Mothership Writers. And thank you.

Love Emylia x

MOTHERLESS DAUGHTER by Louise Murphy Ackerman

Our first Dispatches from New Motherhood piece of 2021 is MOTHERLESS DAUGHTER by Louise Murphy Ackerman. It’s an incredibly moving account of five months in her daughter’s life, and the author’s own as a motherless mother. With intricately expressed memories and intimate reflection, Louise’s piece moves towards a powerfully emotional and uplifting conclusion.

Louise says, ‘Motherless Daughter was written in a process of grief. I lost my mother at age 9 when she passed away unexpectedly of a heart attack. Growing up without a mother was my normal and I told myself that I knew no different so it didn't impact me. But falling pregnant and giving birth opened me up to the Grief I'd been ignoring for the previous 25 years. Facing motherhood without a mother highlighted a loss I'd never considered. Not only was I missing out on a biological norm of having my own mother guide me through this, my daughter would never know her Nanna.’

 ***

Motherless Daughter

Louise Murphy Ackerman

My daughter is barely five hours old. The relentless heat of weeks has turned into rain, trickling down the window of our cosy cubicle. She lies against my chest wrapped snugly in the lilac blanket, marked Hospital Property. My fingers trace the edges of the cloth as my mind is pulled to a memory of you. I was five years old, and shivering as salt water dripped from my pale skin onto the sand as you enveloped me into a bright velvety beach towel. I was instantly warmed. As I nuzzle my daughter into my neck I try to give and feel the safety that’s long been taken from me. In that moment I silently vow to be there for her.

***

It has taken five long days but we are finally home. I breathe a sigh of relief to be in my nest, and let the name Mummy wash over me, officially accepting my new title. I place my daughter, lying safely in the carrycot, under the watchful eye of the frame that holds the only three photos I have of you. I capture the image, perhaps an attempt to link the three of us. Though I don’t need to contrive this connection: my daughter looks just like me, and me like you. I haven’t seen your face since I was nine years old. I was watching you prepare for a night of freedom; you were sitting at the dressing table brushing your hair. You told me to be a good girl while you were gone. Unaware that before the next day began, your beating heart would suddenly stop – and mine would break. That was the start of the May half-term, and the first day of a new me: a motherless me.

***

My daughter is five weeks old. I bite my lip and count to ten, waiting for the burning to stop searing through my breast as she suckles. It should be better by now, but I refuse to give up. The anger boils. I will not fail her. I think of teenage me, so indignant, so bereft but unable to accept that you did not let me down: you simply died. After school I'd visit your resting place. Sit on a nearby bench, and inwardly scream at you. Why didn't you go to the doctor? Why didn't you take better care?  Now I sit for hours with my nursling, exhausted, ignoring my own rising hunger. I understand it now: I see how you took no time to tend to your own garden.

***

Five months have passed since my daughter came into this world. I gave her your name, and we call you Nanna as we greet your photos most days – my heart is less shattered by the absence of you; she has somehow binded the fragments I believed too damaged to reconstruct. I am a motherless mother but I know I will never be alone again.

***

Motherless Daughter by Louise Murphy Ackerman 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.

GIFTS FOR MUMMY by Hannah Morrison

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood treat is a heartfelt and honest account of a new mum’s relationship with her identity. In GIFTS FOR MUMMY, Hannah Morrison reflects on the transformative effects of motherhood.

‘I wanted to write about losing my sense of identity after I had my son,’ Hannah says. ‘I was torn between holding on to someone that I no longer was and stepping in to this new, already written, role of Mother. Having my son turned our world upside down and, in the process, helped me to become a better version of me.’ 

Hannah goes on to say ‘I used to love a good party, but these days, give me a good book, some peace and quiet and a cup of tea over a night out any day! There is no better feeling, than my son at 2.5 years old, clambering on to my lap for a cuddle and saying “I love you Mummy”. And actually, it turns out I’m quite good at this whole motherhood thing after all - I needn’t have worried.’

Enjoy Hannah’s sparkling piece here.

*** 

Gifts for Mummy

Hannah Morrison

• One Mummy card

• One bottle of perfume

• One Desperado

• One Lambert & Butler cigarette

First, I opened the card addressed to Mummy. There it was in writing and official, I was now your Mummy. I needed to be someone different now, and I wasn’t sure if I could. As I read the carefully thought out words from Daddy inside the card, I wept. A powerful wave of love I had never felt for him before sweeping over me.

The perfume was appropriately named Ghost. And there I was, staggering around the house, pale and confused, rocking you in my arms and feeling like a ghost of myself. Days and nights rolled into one. I wore the perfume every day; it was my attempt to cling onto something. I sprayed it at the back of my neck. I couldn’t spray it at the front like I used to. This was your space now, where you spent most of your time, slouched on the nook of my chest, your delicate skin on mine, breathing me in. After a while, I could no longer tell the difference between the perfume's fragrance and the sweet scent of you.

The Desperado chilled patiently in the fridge for almost a month. And all the while I wondered how long we would be stuck in this limbo between me giving birth to you and real life starting again. 'It will get easier,' Nanny told us whilst you squirmed at my breast. Eventually, when we could hold everyone off no longer, we threw a BBQ so that people could meet you and I finally felt comfortable enough to have a drink. That first zesty sip tasted of freedom and adventure and it took me back to a time, before you came along, that would have easily developed into an impromptu night out. But one look at you asleep in your chair and I was reminded that you depend on me entirely.

With a beer in my hand and you still fast asleep, I decided I’d smoke the cigarette. I realised that the days of a guilt-free cigarette were gone. Smoking it was a weirdly strict affair. I made sure all my hair was pulled back tight and I put on an old cardigan to cover my skin. I didn’t really enjoy it and afterwards I washed my hands obsessively and longed for you to wake up, so I could cuddle you again.

Eventually, I came to terms with the idea that, actually, I was never going to be the old me again; aspects of her would still pop up from time to time and I’d welcome her like an old friend: on the odd night out after a few cocktails, or when sinking into a rare candlelit bath – but all the while I’d think of you. And although I loved the old me (the fun, spontaneous, carefree me) it just so happens that I love the new me – your mummy – even more.

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Gifts for Mummy by Hannah Morrison 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.

MAMA SHOWGIRL by Nina Ockendon-Powell

This week’s Dispatches from New Motherhood piece is a wonderfully vibrant account of a new mum doing something she loves for herself, and revelling in the moment. In MAMA SHOWGIRL Nina Ockendon-Powell vividly writes of returning to the stage, swapping her nursing bra for sequins, and feeling the power in the moment and an even greater affirmation of her motherhood.

Nina says, ‘Writing this piece I was thinking about what I wanted my little one(s) to take away from it and those distilled into two elements: the person, the woman that I am beyond being their mother, and the intensity of my love for them. It's easy to lose yourself as a woman, as your own individual, when you become a mother so it was important to not just remind myself but also remind my children so that they incorporate that into their perception of me.

Nina speaks, too, of love, describing it as ‘the biggest stepchange of my experience in becoming a mother, suddenly being capable of loving another person more than I've ever been able to love before. There's also a hint in there of the mystical nature of motherhood that I've experienced, the subtle connection to my babies that goes beyond my instincts and deepens still the appreciation of bond between mother and child.’

Enjoy Nina’s joyful piece here.

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Mama Showgirl

Nina Ockendon-Powell

The glitter is all I could look at; I’ve missed it so much. It dazzles me; it’s all I can see. I have stretched, trained, practised. I am ready, SO ready for this. To get back on that stage again. To be completely, unashamedly ‘Nina’ for a short time. You see, my darling, I am your mother, your Mama, and I am even more than that. I set out my costume, unravelling the long strings of my sequinned cage bra and untangling my dance tights, beaded thong and gloves. ‘This ain’t no nursing bra,’ I smirk to myself with the temporary delight of one who, briefly, has escaped. Pulling up my tights, I wonder if anyone’ll notice the calluses on my knees from the endless nappy changes on the floor. Let’s hope the fishnets work their magic.

I can’t wait to feel the music move me again, the thrill of the lights, the freedom and exhilaration of pushing myself into the limits of my body. So different to the last time I tested body and mind like this, and became two people instead of one. On goes the thong, beads tangling in my fishnets. I pick up my bra, slip my arms through the loops and tie the strings at my back. Ah, boobs. You aren’t what you used to be. Oh well. I stand back and check my reflection in the mirror. Everything is covered (as much as it’s supposed to be…), everything is in place, and it looks good! But the shape of the girl – the woman – looking back at me is not so familiar as I was expecting. More like the shape of my mother. I hear an echo down the generations, the whispers of my female ancestors who look back at me knowingly from the mirror. I hear their birth stories, I feel the inner strength that they found, just like I did, to bring you into this world.

It’s time. The music fills my ears, my body, and the rhythm pulses through me. My body weaves a spell of love, for you and for me. For what I did. For the music. For our life. Maternal love, embodied. Listen, my darling: remember that I love you. Always and forever. My love never wavers, never falters, never, ever alters. It is the constant that accompanies you throughout every moment of your life, your existence on this plane and beyond. Remember this whenever you need me, whenever you’re sad or lonely, whenever you lack confidence or courage. My love is a spell of protection, divine and unbreakable, that will ward off all foes and wrap you in warm golden threads. I carry you in my heart, wherever you are, wherever I am. Eyes bright, spirit soaring, twirling. The Goddess glitters with a full and open heart.

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Mama Showgirl by Nina Ockendon-Powell 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.