3 girls. Lilli, Nola, Eivy, 7, 4, 1. My little pack.
My wonders and my worries. My challenges and my smiles. The shitty diapers and the outfit picking hell each morning (the 1 year old included…)
The hugs and kisses. The missing teeth and gum in long tangly hair. The tears and victories. The pain of girl friendships and managing being a parent among other parents (not my fav). Colorful drawings and clay-blob-things.
And a heart that expands beyond what I thought was possible.
With them came 3 births. These stories are powerful. 1 very challenging hospital birth, 1 home birth, 1 planned home birth gone hospital. Each had elements that needed working through and each brought a healthy beautiful child into this world. I want to talk more about birth stories in a later post. They stick with us. My mother in law gave birth to my man 38 years ago and that story still has its effect on her. Birth’s matter. Trauma of birth is real, even if the outcome is one of joy.
The 3 pregnancies. I loved it. Being pregnant. Would do it again if I could stomach the thought of no sleep. But I really really REALLy can’t. No sleep has been torture beyond belief. I don’t know who I‘ve been the past 4 years. ZZZZZombie doesn’t cut it.
3 dogs I’ve had in my life. One as a kid. Crazy Frida. I still have scars. And then our little gang of English bulldogs; Harvey and Norma. My man’s dream, not mine. I am learning to love them and the mess they make. Their smell not so much.
And anything else I could think of came in larger numbers. I can’t find anymore 3’s.
I have lived in 4 countries. Moved 20+ times in my life. Gone to 11 schools. Had 15+ different jobs. 1 love (Stig is reading). 4 siblings. 2 cars. 17 bikes. 1 of them stolen.
