Sentimental (and long. Sorry)

This weekend the Other Half and I have been clearing out our various abodes in order to streamline our belongings for moving. The work on the new house (must think of a witty name for it) is steaming ahead and we should be in in around six weeks. It's incredible how fast things are moving - the house has gone from being a scaffolded building site to a complete house in a very short space of time and it's a bit unnerving, albeit in a good way.

The amount of junk I brought with me to this flat when I left the Ex is a bit of a worry. I don't mean to give the impression that Small Person and I have to weave our way to the bathroom between six-foot stacks of old newspapers or anything, but I did manage to fill eight or nine black sacks with clothes for the charity shop and general crap for the tip. And I still have to clear out all my old paperwork (shred most of it, I hope) and take some books to the charity shop. Small Person has agreed that we will go through her toys and books and decide what to take and what to give to "children who don't have as much" - luckily she is used to this as we do it after every Christmas and birthday so it shouldn't be too traumatic. All in all, we should be sorted fairly soon.

While I was clearing the wardrobe in the spare room I came across some of Small Person's clothes from her babyhood. There's the blanket she was wrapped in and the tiny hat she wore when the Ex and I brought her home from the hospital at two days old, a couple of weeny, soft beanie hats, and a very small, very soft, cottony sleepsuit. I held the sleepsuit up and marvelled that the beautiful, sparky, lunatic, infuriating, funny and just plain wonderful creature I'm so lucky to call my daughter used to be so tiny. Without knowing what had hit me I found myself in tears and I've been trying to understand why.

I've talked before about how the Ex and I weren't suited - how we argued, how there was no respect in our relationship and how I always yearned for something more. That said, Small Person was very much wanted. I literally woke up one morning at the age of twenty five and decided that what I really had to do right now was have a baby. Although I was ill throughout, I loved being pregnant. I'll never forget the feeling of awe and astonishment I felt when I held my newborn daughter for the first time. Looking down at her angry little face and feeling the warm weight of her in my arms, I felt almost complete. I won't pretend it was easy - anyone who has had a baby knows that they do more to expose any cracks in a relationship than effect a miraculous cure for any problems, but all the same I revelled in being somebody's mother. She has taken the separation of our family in her stride, and despite my feelings about the Ex I have absolutely no doubt that he loves her as much as I do; he's just stupider.

I know that I won't have any more children. I love the Other Half very much, and just as he respects my point of view I have to respect his. We are ridiculously happy, and I am incredibly lucky to have Small Person and to have found such happiness in my personal life. All the same, I think that the sight and feel of that tiny sleepsuit brought home the finality of it. I will never feel a baby kicking inside me again. I won't experience the pain and sheer heady euphoria of giving birth to someone. I take my baby fixes where I can get them, and know that on a rational level I prefer not to be getting up four times a night and changing dirty nappies at a rate of knots. All the same, it hurts. Sometimes it hurts a whole lot, but isn't that just life?

Ah, Sunday. You can always count on Sunday for long, snivelling, self-pitying posts. That'll teach you for stopping by.

Carry on.