I attended an eight week course called Mindfulness-based Therapy in 2014 at the Brighton Therapy Centre. They are no longer based at the venue on St George’s Place – I hope they have found an alternative home.
Before going I had certain, prejudiced I’ll admit, ideas about what Mindfulness might be and the ‘type’ of person who would attend. I’m not even vegetarian I thought, as I made my way to the first session with a fair amount of trepidation. I’m sure these people will be very earnest and we’ll have to chant and sit in the lotus position. Also, I had tried to meditate before and found it extraordinarily difficult, my mind racing all over the place and wishing I could be reclining on the sofa with a glass of wine – surely MUCH more relaxing.

I had sought it out for two reasons. Firstly, on the advice of a couple of people whose opinion I trusted and who knew me. When I said I feared it would be all hippy-dippyish they weren’t offended and assured me it was more robust than that. Secondly, a combination of a recent house move, extensive building work and a difficult period at work had left a residual feeling of anxiety. I would find myself worrying in the evenings about something bad being about to happen but not able to put my finger on what. I owed it to myself to check it out.

I warmed immediately to the tutor John. Physically, he reminded me of the actor Ian Holm – a very grounded, calm presence. He also offered counselling and I can imagine he would be extremely good at it – I felt myself wanting to pour out all my woes. (I didn’t, luckily!) He had a lovely self-deprecating air – he would listen to the plaintive tones of us who were finding it hard to concentrate (on not concentrating), asking how it was to be done and say something like, ‘I wish I knew...’                     
He was, in essence, one of us, but with the skills to turn the individual’s experience into a universal one for us all to understand.
We started as a group of ten. There was a range of ages and ‘types’ in the room (only one man). I did pick up a fair bit of anxiety or restlessness from the others, so that was obviously a determining theme. A few fell along the wayside as the weeks went on. This was no reflection on the course – examining one’s psyche in front of others is not an easy ride. The first casualties were a couple and it was not surprising they didn’t come back. You got the feeling that several people felt able to say things in the space that they wouldn’t to their other half – I know I did. However one member of the couple had a certain obstreperous streak. We did the ‘raisin’ exercise common to a lot of mindfulness courses, whereby you eat a raisin mindfully. One of them refused to eat it saying she was diabetic. John asked mildly if there was an alternative that would have been better.                                                               
‘ANYthing’, she said fervently, as if he’d tried to pour a vat of lard down her.                                        
‘Like a chocolate biscuit’, someone quipped.                                                                                                             ‘Yes’, she said fiercely, daring anyone to question the sense of a diabetic eating a biscuit.

We were each given a workbook with the theme for every week, with some very pithy thoughts on the theme, a sprinkling of poems, a space to record daily observations about our practice and the dreaded homework. No, the homework wasn’t that bad, but you always berate yourself for having not spent more time on it. Or perhaps that’s just me. Topics covered included the recording of Pleasant and Unpleasant Experiences, Thoughts Are Not Facts and Letting Be. We also received a CD to aid practice. The one I found most difficult was the Loving Kindness that we were meant to extend, not just to ourselves and loved ones, but to those people that had wronged you. That was a step too far for me. I was still boiling with rage at the actions of people in my past, but I know that’s my failing.

Each two hour session would begin and end with a meditation. In between we would share experiences from the week, plus discuss certain exercises in pairs. I did do a practice most days in between the weekly sessions – there’s nothing like an empty piece of paper remonstrating with you to get you going. And I did feel I had gained more insight into myself and tools to tackle situations. Not to mention a greater appreciation of things happening round me, RIGHT NOW and being ‘mindful’ of them.

I’ve not kept up my practice regularly since, despite John telling us that the brains of people who practised mindfulness for twenty minutes a day have been found to be larger! I know I should do it and writing this is prompting me to go and do some. You really wouldn’t think it would be that difficult to allot twenty minutes a day to sit in a quiet place and do nothing, yet it’s extraordinary the lengths we go to avoiding it. I do always take a Three Minute Breathing Space when I feel overwhelmed though. And my night-time anxiety has abated which is a great benefit.
 
www.maggiegordon-walker.com

An edited version of this review is in the Journal of Mother Studies
https://jourms.wordpress.com/liberating-motherhood/

The writer, Vanessa Olorenshaw, worked as a lawyer before having children. Her experiences of being marginalised for not returning straight to ‘work’ led her to write this book. She argues passionately and eloquently for the rights of mothers which are continually crushed by a capitalist patriarchal society. Many mothers would like to spend the early years of their children’s lives with them, yet are penalised by a system that insists they gain paid employment. Consequently many are forced into work too soon and their children are then cared for, usually by other women in nurseries, whose own children are possibly also being cared for elsewhere, in a Russian doll style set-up. The patient, caring nurturing that a mother does IS work and should be respected as such.  Care of child often becomes conflated with upkeep of house. This is often perpetuated in the home itself, when other members of the household describe their chores as being ‘for Mum’. Olorenshaw is an advocate of the Basic Income system that some campaign groups are pushing for – a living wage available to all which would give women the freedom to choose.
If anyone thinks mothers don’t get a raw deal, then they have never been one. As she notes, the moment you announce your pregnancy, you become public property, until you have your baby, when you are seen as a nuisance. I well remember having to get off a crowded bus because I wasn’t able to fold my pushchair one handed (the other holding my screaming baby) while the tutting passengers collectively looked away. If you are ‘just a mum’ that’s seen as being lesser, when it is hugely important. But any mother who dares to ask for more support and recognition gets shut down as ‘moaning’. Since the writing of this book we’ve witnessed the mauling of Andrea Leadsom for having the temerity to suggest that being a mother made her a better choice for PM. In fact, she said ‘I feel that being a mum means you have a very real stake in the future of our country,’ but that’s not nearly so sound-bitey.
The book’s sections detail a mother’s Mind, Body, Labour and Heart. It is impressively researched and informative. I learned that ‘oikonomia’, the Greek word for ‘economics’, in fact means ‘household management.’ It looks at how mothers are continually sidelined: Eleanor Rathbone championed the Family Allowance for mothers in 1946 in the UK, which has morphed into the Child Benefit for families in recent years. It gives weight to Olorenshaw’s lament that ‘mothering’ is being erased from our language. That also provided one of the funniest footnotes; the observation that ‘fathering’ is a completely different concept to ‘mothering’. Some of the footnotes are a little irritating however, tending to be of the ‘ooh, I’m being ironic here.’ When a piece is as well researched and written as this, it doesn’t sit entirely well.
There is an excellent section on breastfeeding, the rates of which are pitiably low in the UK, detailing the fixation on the content of milk, rather than the act of feeding itself. However, I was surprised there was no mention that those most likely to breastfeed are professional, middle class women. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/nov/24/class-baby-breastfed-life-chances-inequality . All the specialist counsellors and time at home in the world will not remove the unpalatable and no doubt politically incorrect fact that many working-class women regard breastfeeding  as disgusting or unnatural. It is an extremely contentious, judgement-laden topic and there is a whole load of work to do in desexualising women’s breasts, starting with removing them from mainstream media.
Olorenshaw believes a mother has the right to choose, but she is so fervent about their right to spend as much time with their children as she did, it feels a little prescriptive. Looking after children is described as hard and frustrating, but not (whisper it) – boring - and maybe some women reading it will feel guilty if they do find it so. In my experience of running groups with new mothers, they often confess to the cardinal sin of being bored when they are with their babies, with feelings of remorse and shame, but they are relieved they are able to say this and not be condemned to the status of ‘bad mother’ for their honesty.
She is harsh on liberal and social feminists, old-school ground-breaking feminists such as De Beauvoir and Friedan. If feminists do not champion the rights of mothers they are ‘patriarchy’s mouthpiece’ [pg 44]. The Women’s Equality Party, which was founded in 2015, comes in for a right pasting. Olorenshaw had sat on the policy working group when the party first came into being and had got frustrated at their inability to be more proactive in the matter of mothers’ rights and their insistence on seeing ‘mothers as a problem to be solved’ [pg 253].  She decided not to continue her involvement which is understandable, but surely she should be making allies with these people? They have potentially a higher profile than some of the organisations listed at the back of the book. Professional women too are dismissed, ‘the unwillingness of a privileged class of women to challenge the system that had given them power’ [pg 201], but seeing as the bulk of her readers will be in this category, it might be seen as a risky move. She advocates for ‘maternal feminism’, with the concept of a Purplestockings movement – combining the Bluestockings (intellectual educated women from the eighteenth century) and Redstockings (Radical Feminists of the 1960s).
Olorenshaw wrote a pamphlet for the UK 2015 election, which maybe has coloured the tone here.  While each chapter works as a stand-alone piece, it reads as quite polemical and repetitive – the words ‘patriarchy’ and ‘feminist/m’ occur a fearsome amount of times. I found the most interesting chapter to be ‘The Politics of Mothering’ – I think the original piece – containing many interesting facts about fiscal policy and stats about mothers and families. However it is near the end and I felt quite worn out by then like I’d been repeatedly kicked in the shins by a ‘purple-stockinged foot’ that read ‘message.’
I felt a variety of things while reading – pride and tenderness for my children (good – it was lovely to be reminded of the importance and sweetness of my work as a mother), rage against the system (understandable – I experienced similar after reading Greer et al as a student), but also some dissatisfaction against my personal setup – three males in the house – one big, two small. Raging at a system created by men, then looking at your own men, is a bit unsettling. As Olorenshaw explains, patriarchy has been around as long as Plato. While there is a brief mention of the Goddess culture, it is not really expounded, so it is hard not to feel a bit hopeless at a situation that has always been so.
However, small gripes aside, this is a fluid, punchy, beautifully written piece with some poetic, memorable quotes, such as ‘becoming a mother is like learning to drive the day after being run over by a bus’, [pg65] or how mothers are ‘society’s paradoxical scapegoat sat on a pedestal.’ [pg125]

Recently I jettisoned a sideboard in our house. This meant emptying it of a large bag of letters dating back to my school days. I didn’t jettison these – heaven forbid! I browsed through them for a while, feeling overwhelmed by nostalgia and lost in memories. Here’s the letters from friends complete with little drawings  that cheered me through struggles to find my way at college, here’s the mysterious Valentine’s card I received and subsequently unmasked the sender (which was a mistake for us both, the illusion having been so much more satisfactory!), here’s postcards from forgotten holiday acquaintances. They are faded in places and some of the ink is smudged, but the memories spring into life when reading them.
Keeping in touch these days is easier than ever. In fact, having found some letters from an American friend I’d lost touch with in this stash, led me to not just wonder what he was up to, but track him down in a very short time and email him to ask (not as stalker-ish as it sounds!). However emails just don’t conjure up the same excitement. Perhaps it’s something to do with the effort that was previously required. Not just dashing off a couple of lines and pressing ‘Send’, but writing a whole letter, putting it in an addressed envelope, finding a stamp, posting it and then WAITING for a reply. It showed you cared about someone that you were prepared to put the time in. And prepared to wait for that reply.
I realise I must be getting ever closer to the ‘grumpy old woman’ who thinks things were better before, but I genuinely  believe the convenience of being able to be in more immediate contact with people brings a downgrade in the importance of that communication, as well as the inevitable downside of never being permitted to be out of contact from ‘the office’. We’ve lost the savouring of that wait and the delight when the post yielded more than bills and an unwanted catalogue. You can print out an email but it doesn’t carry the same weight, metaphorically, if not literally. I feel sorry for those born in the last 20 or so years who will never have the joy of a letter plopping through the door.
We are in a permanent state of peering at others’ lives through social media, but remaining hidden because no-one knows you are peering unless you join the conversation. I have probably a moderate to high level of ‘peering’ – I am capable of doing other things, but quite often flick onto Facebook or Twitter if the programme I’m watching isn’t all that thrilling. And what a Pandora’s Box Facebook is. You start by looking at pictures of a friend’s birthday, then find yourself segued onto their third cousin once removed’s wedding in Barbados, before the invitable clickbait onto ‘Shock-horror-Celebrities That Aren’t Very Famous And Now Look Hideous’ .
We all know that our Facebook ‘friends’ extend way beyond the handful of close intimates we actually have and that certainly isn’t all bad. I have acquaintances from various stages of my life and enjoy the banter and comments we exchange. Without that we would have completely lost touch. But I’m sad about the loss of letters. Not very far in the future, you can imagine these scribbles being pored over in a museum as precious artefacts from a forgotten age. If I can find the time (sigh!), perhaps I will dig out my address book and send a letter to someone. Join me...?

Guest-post Eliza St John
https://medium.com/@greene.eliza/the-return-to-work-remember-youve-got-superpowers-2a80ebafd04e#.k0zxrojke__
Before I had children I’d park my car at work and check my make-up. Now I have children, I park my car at work and scrape my child’s breakfast or snot from my top.

Coming back into the world of paid work can be a challenge. Especially if you’ve returned with an idea of fulfilling the ‘perfect-employee-and-mother’ look.
You stumbled through maternity leave in a fog of tiredness and most mums who return to paid work are still not getting a full night’s sleep. Your child’s nocturnal activity seems to magically correlate with big presentations and important meetings – to the point you start to question whether they’ve hacked your Outlook calendar.
That’s if you actually manage to get into work. Most mother’s return to work is punctuated with false starts and apologies for unscheduled time off to look after a poorly baby with an immune system seemingly made from a wet piece of tissue paper (seriously, this is the only explanation for the cold that lasts 8 months of the year). After the cold comes to an end they go on to contract a childhood illness you’ve never heard of or just thought cattle got – OK cows don’t have hands but you’re pretty sure and about the foot and mouth thing.
Throughout the baby and toddler years you’ll grow to accept shrugging-off the tell-tale signs of motherhood. To anyone who’s returned already these may be familiar scenarios. If you’re still on maternity leave then here’s a few things to tick off your list of parenthood achievement – think of it as a kind of NCT crash course for the office but with realistic expectations. This time you know a few fairy lights scattered around your desk isn’t going to distract from the inevitable teething pain of returning to the world of work…
First-up is the flustered late arrival of the mother into the office apologising and explaining how her baby poop or puked two minutes before leaving the house. And it gets no easier as they grow. Once your child’s a toddler leaving the house is a negotiation. You talk them into leaving the house, then they leave carrying various unsuitable toys like tiny hostages with them into the car. Then comes the micromanagement required of school-aged kids, down to each individual step: ‘walk, walk out of the door – walk straight ahead, no, don’t stop…
Then there’s the slightly dishevelled appearance. The ‘just-got-out-of-bed’ look is simply an ironic statement because you’ve actually been up for four hours even before you start work – 9am is basically your lunchtime.
You’re still trying to shift the last few pounds of baby weight, but you learn never to wear anything in ‘slimming’ black’ as you can clearly see yogurt handprints made by your little darling. Instead you opt for patterns which cover a multitude of sins in a meeting. And just in case you manage to get to work looking like you don’t have kids, there’s the tell-tale toys and baby wipes that spill out from your bag as you reach for your laptop.
But despite it all you’ve returned with superpowers. You’re more able and confident than you were before. Hell, you’ve given birth and regularly keep a suicidal midget from killing themselves – you can cope with anything now. You know what stress is – you’ve survived someone crying in your face all day, made dinner with one hand and scooped poo out of the bath. You can negotiate with the hardest customers now, they don’t daunt you — you’ve looked an angry toddler in the eye. By simply being a mother you’ve found patience and developed conflict negotiation skills you never knew you had. To top it all you can really multitask now – there’s nothing like the speed, productivity and efficiency of a caffeinated mother who has to leave work on time to pick-up her child.
So the truth is you may not return to work as the same person who left heavily pregnant. You may not seem as slick and polished but you’re better. You’re wiser, more accepting and more capable than you ever thought possible – it’s just that mothers take superpowers for granted sometimes.

The Name of the Rose - I have thought long and hard about writing this post. Soon after Romy died I found it immensely helpful to put my thoughts and feelings into words, as a way of communicating with those who so kindly wanted to know how I was, and also to help me to process what I was living through. The positive feedback I gained from my posts helped me so much: thank you.
Writing this blog gave me so much in those early days. It gave me some sense of purpose outside doing my best to keep my remaining two children alive. It gave me something to do when I thought I would go out of my mind. It gave me connection to others who had experienced this mind blowing devastation.
That was around eighteen months ago. So why on earth did I stop?


There is a very simple answer to this question, but there are also others. What made me stop initially is the fact that in February 2015, almost seven months since Romy left us, I discovered that I was pregnant. Since I had been so honest and open about what was happening in my life, I felt unable to write the blog as I simply didn’t feel ready, or able, to share the news of my pregnancy. In fact, right up until the birth and afterwards, D and I realised to our chagrin that there were still people who hadn’t known I was pregnant. To anyone reading this who knows and didn’t realise we’d had another baby: I’m really, really sorry!
As you can imagine, this fourth pregnancy was very different to any of my others, for reasons you would expect and for others that were a complete surprise to me. It all felt so surreal and due to its close proximity to my pregnancy with Romy, at times they blended into one another and added to my confused state of mind.
My mother, never one to offer unsolicited advice or intrusive comment, remarked to me recently that I have been in shock for eighteen months, and this really struck a chord. It is now 21 months since Romy passed and only once I got through the awful marker of sixteen weeks with our newborn did I feel that my mind and my body were emerging from some kind of parallel universe. During this period of deep shock, everything froze. I couldn’t read, I didn’t write one line, life before Romy’s birth didn’t seem to exist and I felt completely alienated from anything creative, perhaps as I knew that I had to pour all my energy into sustaining the new life that we had created, and which I was carrying. I began to understand why so much has been written of pregnancy after loss. When you have lost a child, any subsequent pregnancy takes on a whole new dimension.
Once our new son had safely arrived, I felt myself withdrawing, disconnecting completely from my body, blocking things out of my mind and starting to try to convince myself that none of it had ever happened. This was made difficult by the fact that, having not held a baby since Romy breathed her last in our arms, I was being transported back every day to those four precious months with her. ‘I remember when she first smiled.’, ‘She used to love bathtime too’, ‘I remember this feeling.’ On more than one occasion I’ve referred to him as ‘she’ or ‘her’. I didn’t think he looked like her at all but once I somehow found it in myself to hang her picture back on the wall I realised that actually they do look alike. Our older daughter was adamant that the picture hanging on the wall was of her new brother, not her sister, and wouldn’t be told otherwise.
As January came and went, I descended deeper into an abyss I wasn’t expecting. This wasn’t post natal depression. I was thrilled with our new baby, bonded with him strongly and felt that he had practically saved my life. It’s not exactly a cheerful time of year anyway but I was dismayed at just how low I sank. Every time I had a particularly bad day I berated myself for feeling that way. How could I feel this bad when we had been blessed with a beautiful new baby? How could I be so ungrateful? But grief is of course more complex than this.
Somewhere in mid February 2016 we approached the dreaded marker of fifteen weeks and three days – the age Romy was when she died. A lot of my PTSD symptoms – specifically, the flashbacks, panic attacks and paranoia about the children – resurfaced with a vengeance and I began to feel real anxiety about something bad happening. But we got to fifteen weeks and three days and passed it. We passed sixteen weeks. We arrived at seventeen weeks, at which point the game changed again. Now, I felt my sense of loss deepen as I entered unchartered territory. The ‘I remember this…’ turned into, ‘She never did this…’, ‘I never saw her do that’.
Watching our older children playing with their new brother, it began to dawn on me that there is a big gap where Romy should be. Our elder two are nineteen months apart; the exact same difference in age as that between our younger two children. As I was putting our eldest to bed one night he became really upset, asked me where Romy was and told me he was worried in case she wasn’t okay. We spent some time talking about this before he tearfully told me, ‘But Mummy, there should be four of us.’ These times have been really hard. During my pregnancy, my sensitive boy asked several times, ‘Mummy, is the baby going to be okay?’ ‘What if the baby dies?’, ‘Will the baby still be here at Christmas?’ He showed mild interest in his little brother but remained pretty detached until just before Christmas when he blurted out, ‘Mummy, I don’t want my brother to die.’ Previously to this I had chosen my words carefully, never wanting to issue any guarantees I couldn’t follow up on, always being cautious in reassuring my children that it was very unusual for a baby to die, that usually, people are very old when their bodies stop working and that I was as sure as I could be that their brother was going to be okay.
As I searched my son’s worried, tear stained face that morning I threw all of that out of the window and said, ‘Listen to me. He is not going to die.’ And overnight, his brother began to connect with him, play with him and talk to him. Now he squabbles with his sister over who’s going to help feed him, find his favourite toy or try to make him laugh. I give thanks often for our decision to always talk about things with our children, to not shy away from the unpleasant aspects and the difficulties. A family that communicates is united and we would not be where we are today had we not consulted our children on their opinions and feelings along the way.
I was at the point of revisiting my GP to request the antidepressants we’d discussed previously, when I decided to have one more go at getting a grip. I started Pilates. I got a massage. I consulted a homeopath and a nutritionist. I pared down all the counselling to just one: our trusted Child Bereavement UK telephone counselor, Sue, who has been with us from the early days of our loss. Still, ‘I just don’t know how to get myself out of this hole’, I wailed at my poor husband. He asked me what I thought the answer was, if I answered my own question quickly, without thinking. ‘Write.’, I told him simply. And so here I am, writing myself out of a hole.
I made a promise to Romy that I would write about her, tell her story and make meaning of her short time with us. And so, a bit late to the party I am making a start on that mission, and the beginning is here. It does all feel a bit backward, coming as it does after such a lauded start back in 2014, but this writing has more than one purpose. It honours Romy’s memory and helps me to remember her and to heal. I hope that it helps others who have lost a child and also those who know parents who have lost a child. By writing about my experience I hope that it will make a small difference in enabling people to talk about child loss; a subject which I still find worryingly taboo.
After each of our children’s births we have buried their placenta under a new, specially selected plant in our garden. The rose bush I chose with the children to mark the site of Romy’s placenta is called New Beginnings; a beautiful apricot coloured bloom which reminds me of her as for some reason I chose to dress her in this colour a lot. It suited her peachy skin and stunning cornflower blue eyes.
At the time, I felt that the name of this rose bush was auspicious as we were looking optimistically towards new horizons in our life. I could not possibly have realised just how this name would resonate with me over the months to come. After Romy passed we moved house, the children started a new school, D’s business partnership dissolved and he began a new venture on his own, I turned my back on a decade’s work in fertility, pregnancy and birth. And, of course, we were yet again poised to welcome new life. A flash of inspiration gave me the title for this post and as I wrote it I realised that The Name of The Rose – a story by Umberto Eco and a film we both like-also has as its theme the song Kiss From a Rose by Seal, which is one we chose to play for Romy at her remembrance ceremony. If ever the baby is crying in the car, we put this song on and he stops immediately. We’ve tried several different tracks but he only ever does it with this one.
To my surprise, the mere act of writing is also helping me to rediscover a part of myself that I lost long ago. D and I were recently sitting at a beach café – a regular outing we promised ourselves: after all, what’s the point of moving to a seaside town if you’re not going to take advantage of an underpopulated weekday beach every now and then? Over coffee (me) and green tea (him) we were catching up with each other and talking about how we felt as Romy’s second birthday approached. I told him that I really, really wanted to restart this blog. Then I heard myself say it: “When I was younger, my dream was to be a writer.” I’m not sure who was more surprised by this statement, but as I reflected it all came flooding back. I wrote poetry, stories and plays. I entered writing competitions. I persuaded my school to put on one of my plays, which I directed my whole class in and acted in too. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten this part of myself. What happened?
Since we welcomed our new baby and the shock of Romy’s passing begins to thaw, I have unlocked this part of myself and I now feel excited about writing. At this point I must credit a wonderful organisation, Mothers Uncovered, a Sussex-based creative support network for mothers (http://www.mothersuncovered.com). Each discussion group has at its core an arts related project or activity, and it just so happened that my local one was a writing group. Within this safe space, populated by some of the kindest, funniest, most supportive women I have met in a long time, I felt able to share both my feelings and my writing.
I have had every type of counselling imaginable and many, many different therapies but writing has helped me most of all. It has helped me to remember that aside from raising our children and being a supportive partner I do have a purpose, there is something that fires me up. I’m starting to feel a flicker of something like I used to feel, Before.
So, I have revisited this blog, given it a little overhaul and committed to it. I invite you to share it as I hope that in giving a voice to my thoughts and experiences, I’m sending a little bit of Romy out into the world to connect with others and to help them in their grief and understanding of those who grieve. There is so much to catch up on since I last wrote a post that I hardly know where to start.
People say that the first year is the worst. Actually I’ve heard that said about everything, from grief to marriage to starting a new business. In my experience, it’s not. I read all of Elisabeth Kubler Ross’s work on grief and grieving. I thought I’d skipped the anger part. I naively stumbled through the first year without Romy expecting it to be some kind of rite of passage which, once achieved, would allow me to return to some kind of semblance of my former self. Wrong.
Instead, I am using my daughter’s rose, New Beginnings, as something to inspire me and propel me forwards. I know now that every day of every year has the potential to be crippling, however much time has passed. I have to believe that Romy’s time here was meaningful, not just to me but to others. I have to see all the new beginnings in my life since she left it as her work, a breadcrumb trail towards my purpose and perhaps, in some small ways, of some help to others.

From 'Remembering Romy' https://rememberingromy.com/

To be a mother
is to discover another in places there are no spaces
at least none to call mine.

It's to be constantly amazed
through the haze of exhaustion
at each new day's revelation and blooming.

To meet changes and challenges
and last minute outfits
with smiles through tears of longing
for one whole sleep cycle,
clean dishes or a soak in a clean bath.

It's to notice how well you've turned out
let go or not
but feel for another
more than you ever knew you could.

To know you feel different
accept it and not judge
To strive for perfection
let go of expectation
our ruin and damnation.
To cry for our sins
and feel guilt for the least of things.

To stifle a sneeze, a scream, a shout
not letting those words out
To fall asleep smiling
wake to crying
drawing her close
and always but always finding ways to cope.

To survive a series of mini deaths
salted cheeks smiling on memories
mourning that from which she's moved on
greeting the next phase
promising to always remember
never to forget what’s already been.

To lay awake wide eyed with worry
as a hot baby lays upon you
while you search and think maybe,
maybe I did or could have done something wrong
maybe this one won't be here for long.

To feel responsibility so strong, so depended upon,
it spears you through your core,
sends you a fear quake,
a tremor through your physicality
an ache that make you feel so alone so sore.

To find oneself alone amongst old friends,
a welcome worn out,
an alien, outsider in this new and foreign land
though it looks just like home
something has happened
something has changed
an arrival
Its me - a mother uncovered.

Short Stories About Mothers is the first in a planned series of collaborative publications edited by Steven Short. For more information visit: www.shortstoriesabout.co.uk

Those who have encountered some of the somewhat nauseating homilies about motherhood that pop up on Facebook or the like will be reassured to learn that the pieces in this book are refreshingly free from sentiment. Encased in a plain pillar box red cover, they cover a wide range of experiences. There are reminiscences of the writers’ mothers, both warm and harsh. There are women in the front line of motherhood, as it were, in full realisation that the days of parenthood seem very long, but the years fly by and suddenly your baby is gone. There are sad tales of babies lost. There is also motherhood observed: the refugee woman desperate to see her children, the woman who realises that she will now not be a mother, those in religious orders as mother to many. There are striking pictures throughout and a lovely set of photos of mothers on the school run. A thoughtful, thought-provoking collection.

 We all have long to-do lists that we never seem to get to the end of. Before you become a mother you can forget about it by going out for a night with friends. What happens though, when your list is not only never-ending but inescapable? This is the case for new mothers. The small creature in their charge is constantly needing food, sleep, comfort and the poor mother, exhausted and irritable, feels like she cannot get any respite to take care of her own needs. This feeling of being like a hamster on a wheel with the mind whirring through all the tasks, or fretting about things that can’t be done because of having to hold the baby is overwhelming. Every time I was feeding my baby on the sofa I would notice a book upside down on the bookshelf opposite but kept forgetting it when I got up because of all the tasks I was rushing to do, only to be annoyed by it all over again the next time I felt imprisoned on the sofa by my hungry baby.

Go easy on yourself -  It is hard to do but at this point in your life relax and go with the flow. Mindfulness teaches us to be present in the moment, even if that moment is stressful and upsetting. The pushing away of worries only increases them, so really focus on what is happening now. If you are feeding your baby, notice what sounds you can hear, what your baby feels like in your arms, observe all the details of their face or hands. It is important to be more forgiving of yourself and others. Maybe the housework or life-plans slide for a while, but it doesn’t matter in the long term. Take time to sit in the sunshine, or hug your partner. It may feel like an eternity, but the period when your baby is tiny and all-consuming passes quite quickly. So instead of berating yourself on tasks undone, make an ‘achievement’ rather than a to-do list. Note everything you have managed to do for you and baby that day, especially things like changing nappies, washing-up or having a shower. Then you will see what you are truly accomplishing each day.

Other tips • Do a three minute meditation when your baby is asleep. Close your eyes, observe what is happening in your thoughts, feelings and body. Identify and acknowledge it, for example ‘just worrying’, ‘just anger’, then return your focus to your breath. • There are several phone apps to help with mindfulness (Insight Timer) and monitoring feelings. ‘Mappiness’ asks what you are doing and feeling a number of times a day, so you can observe stressful times and manage them better. • Invest in a sling so your baby can be close to you while you do chores. • Write down all the things that cause you resentment: situations, people, even your baby, then shred it.

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