Weaving a life story

In a moment that carried the weight of a lifetime, out she came;

Covered in vernix and deep crimson blood, she of no name.

She didn’t burst forth, in a rush to win the race;

Quietly determined, but brimming with grace.

Like she entered a house, long ago well known;

She’d come back to the world and I would build her a home.

I flowed each contraction, those psychedelic waves;

Breathing, moaning, my body moving as it craved.

Riding, rather than pounding against the rising crest;

Her mouth finally suckling at my engorged pale breast.

Those first weeks flew by in a bright flash from above;

Showered with iridescent confetti of love.

Then sleep deprivation began to kick in and my fingers began to slip;

Clinging to the mantle, nodding and smiling, and gradually losing my grip.

One dull, dark grey day morphed into another;

I’d never dreamed I’d be this kind of mother.

Some days I wondered if I’d made a mistake;

Unravelling, all my reflection showed was a fake.

She wasn’t planned and I was doing it on my own;

So many nights of crying, feeding and going it alone.

It was all so overwhelming, the sheer loss of euphoria;

Like the return of wave after wave of violent red nausea.

Some days I wished I was a fighter, able to conquer a city in a day;

Yet bearing another fake smile, I knew needed some other way.

Someone said I shouldn’t share this with my daughter;

Some things are better left unsaid, don’t enter the water.

But I don’t want to create a life for her safe on the shore;

There mountains to climb, jungles to see and so much more.

You see, my struggle wasn’t the beginning of this story;

And rising once more is not my ending in glory.

The story began before it and continues well on after;

It’s in the tears, the joy, the grief and the laughter.

There isn’t a single inch of her being that I don’t adore;

And I’ll do my best to prepare her the world at her door.

For the best laid plans aren’t the ones you can conceive;

And the best lives are the ones we colourfully weave.