Another pregnancy, another round of anaemia

The light in winter in our flat in London is stunning. It pools in shafts across my red Burmese table, the rattan chairs from Helen, the Tunisian print on the wall, the vivid colours of my monsoon painting of downtown Yangon. And here, I crouch on the sofa. It's almost 5 o'clock and today I have managed to wrestle our little man to nursery, fry myself a steak and do two tea compresses to relieve the styes growing in my eyes. The rest of the day has been spent sleeping or lying down in bed bearly moving. It's a strange half kind of living. I'm 30-weeks pregnant and for the last 5-weeks anaemia, viruses and utter, blinding, stop-you-in-your-tracks fatigue have slowed by pace to nothing. 

I can list off some of the things I've missed: my 40th murder mystery weekend party on an island; the launch of a training for work that we've spent 9-months developing; a work trip to Paris, which would have allowed me to see my French teacher who is struggling with cancer. But there's also the small delights of life: The sensation of connecting with colleagues from around the world; the feeling of doing something worthwhile; the mental stimulation of a job I love; the joy of teaching yoga on a Saturday to my global community; my feminist multimedia club; weekly French conversation; the ability to spend hours playing with our little man without feeling commatozed afterwards; the ability to plan things to look forward to. 

Of course, I am so grateful to be pregnant, so grateful to feel the kicks of this little boy telling us he is growing and moving and well. But, yes, let me be honest with you, I am also feeling a little sorry for myself; aware there's still 10-weeks of pregnancy ahead (perhaps more!) and although there is so much to do (inventories of furniture, packing, the endless taks of keeping a toddler alive), I am not up to most of it, or can manage it only in tiny small chunks, alongside big chunks of rest. 

In 4-weeks we move to Cardiff for a year. And, although I had psychologically prepared myself for the black hole of life with a new-born, I had not prepared myself for a 4-months hiatus before then. I'd stopped all planning from March, but had a packed February schedule, all connected to those delightful weeks in January when I felt invincible. 

Yet, I know deep down that perhaps this is the body's way of preparing for what is ahead. Perhaps it knows that, in order to get through the next year, my body needs to replenish its stocks, build up its sleep, its nourishment, its sense of itself. Perhaps this is the time when the Mama bear fattens herself ahead of famine, so she is able to survive. So, yet again, the universe holds me to the grindstone of learning. You must learn to accept, to surrender, to lean into this time. You must learn to say no to all but the most vital of tasks. You must learn to accept help, to simplify life down to its most fundamental parts and you must trust that this is in some way preparing me for the great unknown of being a mother of two.