Since my last post I managed to spawn a gorgeous baby girl.

Freyja was born one year to the day of Mumm-Ra’s funeral, September 11, 2018. She’s now four months old and a very happy character.

The labour part was fine I suppose – my sciatica was at its peak (what I thought was its peak) but it doesn’t really matter until the midwives want you to stand up to let gravity do its job. I think in an ideal world I should’ve been dropping it like an elephant calf.

My version of events was very different to reality. Reality was a lot worse. My version is fabulous. I napped through contractions, which I initially thought were kicks, up to 8cm, woke up long enough to say yes to a Caesarian when Freyja’s heart rate dropped, got wheeled to theatre where her heart rate picked up again, got wheeled back, and went back to napping until they told me to push.

Travis was there keeping me cool, Daddio was there cracking dad jokes until I screamed at him to shut the fuck up and get out, swiftly followed by a frantic begging for him to stay.

At 4:22, out came a tiny, wrinkly, grey alien child. My first words: are they always this colour? I suppose I expected something at least human-looking.

Then the bad stuff. Oh, she’s fine, it’s her mummy who’s fucked.

With a vagina firmly ripped in two, I managed to stay in hospital longer than those women having C sections. I finally managed to get home under the strict instructions I am not to leave the bedroom. It’d take me 15 minutes to get to the bathroom, 5 minutes to stand up, and I’ve never been so grateful for the gift of a narrow corridor in my life.

When I finally felt able to brave leaving the house, my maximum radius was probably about 100m before needing to stop for a rest. I started to see an osteopath, which was great while it lasted – while exercising, I might have overdone it a little and managed to get my sciatic nerve trapped in my sacroiliac joint. For those who’ve never experienced this joy, here’s the summary: I’d have rather given birth again.

The good news is that Travis managed to get another job about a week before I gave birth. Roll on a month, he’s been promoted to partner and director. He’s doing brilliantly, and is set to do even better. He passed his driving test first time, so he is currently keeper of my lovely mate Jim, the Clio.

This is where my selfish side creeps in. With my Dad out all day, and Trav leaving at quite possibly 7-something (as a breastfeeder, I find it irrational for the breadwinner to have to get up during the night when he already has a long day so these days I’m usually asleep when he’s gone), returning at normally 7-something, I’m actually feeling lonely for once. As I write this, on a Friday when he finishes at 5, he’s understandably passed out cold from exhaustion, Freyja, who I placed temporarily in her Moses basket, is laying in the most dignified manner in her dressing gown, arms in “Don’t shoot” position with her legs akimbo giving me an amazing shot of her nappy (Pampers Pure Protection, because I know you wanted to know, which I happen to love for their beautiful, elegant designs – she’s wearing a particularly lovely pair of nappy pants with “i ❤️ you” on the front), and I… am writing this. Earlier I tried to tell Travis something, only to be shot down, in a way, by him finishing a sentence presuming it was the end of the story, and at that point I’d been talking for… about 5 seconds.

I have to admit that although I don’t actually have post-natal depression, I feel pretty down. The only conversations I have are by text, I’m confined to one place most of the time, and so I feel useless. Doesn’t matter about the fact I can barely walk. I want to be walking, I want to be doing something useful. I don’t want everything to be done for me. I’m fed up of being an invalid. And hey, don’t get me wrong, Freyja’s a hell of a lot of fun. I can and do spend hours playing with her, helping her “sit like a human”, “stand like a human” and “walk like a human”. Her smiles are amazing. I just feel right now that I can’t physically pick her up, take her out, take Rosie and her for a walk, anything. I feel like a failure, even though I have Travis there telling me I’m not – “I give her baths, you give her everything else”. I get the hard love when I’m crying, as if not crying changes how I feel. Now I’m just taking my tears to the bathroom.

How do I feel? Well, aside from lonely and crippled with a severe case of cabin fever, I feel all kinds of irrational feelings, like I’m fat (granted, I am at the moment and fit into nothing but my maternity clothes [and as it’s currently the marginally happier side of 0 degrees Celsius right now and I was pregnant through the hottest summer on record, that’s not great!]), undesirable, generally unwanted, bored, shrugged aside, and unloved.

Now, I could at least ease the chill factor by getting new clothes, however in my current state I have no idea what size I am, really regret updating my wardrobe back in the month of conception after my weight loss (at least I got a couple of months’ wear out of the Levis I bought… Thankfully I’m not into my labels though!), and would need to go out and do something I hate – try on clothes. Only, I can’t try on the clothes. I can’t do that because I can’t bloody go anywhere. Frustration and sorrow has increased.

Aside from the fact Travis is so tired he gives me a kiss goodnight, rolls over and sleeps, I want a goddamn cuddle. I can’t cuddle him – my current condition won’t allow me to be in a cuddle position. Therefore extracurricular fun is also off the menu.

I could do that whole actually talk to people thing, but I feel fragile. I feel as if talking to people will make me worse somehow, be it because they’re happy and here’s me, wallowing in painful misery.

Others out there have it worse. I keep telling myself this. I see others have it worse on the TV. With Travis’s obsession with watching what’s going on in American politics, I’m seeing how many thousands of people can’t pay their bills because there’s a stroppy OAP throwing his toys out of his pram at every opportunity. (Side note: I’ve just realised 61/100 senators are eligible for bus passes.)

I just can’t shake the sadness. I mean, I know I have a lot – a loving man, a fantastic dad, an amazing little girl who’s too busy growing to fit into the clothes for her age range longer than a few weeks – and stand to have it all with Travis’s determination, yet I feel like a zombie. Granted, a zombie which is filled with love, but there’s numbness a lot of the time to go along with the sorrow.

I am, however, bored now of feeling sorry for myself. I’ll let you know when I’ve found an alternative. In the meantime, here’s something that keeps me sane: that perfect smile from my perfect blue-eyed girl.