I've been unusually gentle with The Bhaeblet these last two days. Even when he's been at his most difficult, I just couldn't summon up that anger that used to rise so easily before. I keep thinking, poor baby, I'll be away for a whole night and day, and I do hope he doesn't think I've left him and gone. Because if he did cry for me, I would probably tear off my hospital gown and head right home, right then.
Ok, while we're being all misty-eyed let me also state quite firmly that I do not believe that mothers can hear their children cry from anywhere. For one thing, despite our assertions to the contrary, we are not superwomen. For another, hell, why would we? Most likely that myth was built by women whose babies' cries rang in their ears (for years) from having to hear it all the time. Whiny brats. You have to admire the rhythm of that sentence though.
It's like this: the room is booked, the OT lot have been warned, Sue is heading nursing-homewards again! After the typhoid and the C-section, I did think they would let me be. But no, now they want to cut my wrist for me. All these years, whenever I felt particularly depressive, I often fantasised about doing just that. Never had the nerves (am really bad at handling pain, I freely admit it. Am never getting another tattoo. Probably.) And now they are going to go ahead and do it for me, and hell, I'll pay and be grateful for it too.
I feel most ill-used. But then I think of The Bhaeblet, and I just feel like howling. They are taking me away from my baaaaaaaby! For a whole night and day. Meanies!