Here is my throne

There are times when I can hardly believe that I have been pregnant. And twice? And yet if I shut my eyes up ever so tightly, tear my heart open a tiny bit and concentrate, I can still feel my fingertips on George's soft, cold, very slightly damp cheek.

The hope that pushed me on and on month after month after month and finally made Little Poppet seems to have run out. I can feel my body getting ready to ovulate and whoop dee doo it's all back in order. It's just so very much the wrong order.

And I don't care. No, that's not true; I don't hope. I'm afraid to hope. I'm afraid to think beyond this moment here. I'm afraid to imagine trying again and I'm afraid to imagine giving up. Ah, welcome back to the limbo land of the babylost. It's like slumping down into a well worn, very familiar and perfectly uncomfortable armchair.

I haven't cried for weeks and I feel as if perhaps I need to cry. But I am not miserable and I am not numb. I have been laughing and smiling and enjoying our little adventures and enjoying our little garden and trying to create something although perhaps... perhaps I've even been a little too cheerful at times.

My Mum pointedly asks, "How are you?" and I answer that I am ok.

And I think it's the truth.

But I'm not entirely sure.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.
To me and to the state of my great grief
Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

{Seats herself on the ground]