Days in the sun.

We have just returned home from four sunny days away in the bus. The bus, you ask? Ah yes, the bus. I will write about that one day soon when I have more time to spare.

The main reason for the break was to spend a weekend with Schmoo and the Man – in all probability the last weekend we will have with them as an unencumbered couple. Because in four short weeks, their baby is due to be born. Talking and even thinking about this child is still a little like walking on cracking ice, because although we are all so much looking forwards to this new little one, there is a lurking feeling of what I can only describe as guilt hovering somewhere in the background. Quite why guilt should be present at this time is a bit of a mystery, but there you are. There is no explaining the human heart. I try not to explore too deeply in that painful area but I can only imagine that, deep within my psyche somewhere, there is a feeling that things might be different if only I had….what?

And there my mind sticks. Because my logic tells me – as it rightly should – that there is not a single thing on god’s green earth that I or anyone could have done to prevent the awfull consequences of March 2006.

Schmoo blames herself. She denies it, but little hints creep out sometimes, little words that indicate to me, the ever vigilant mother, that she feels responsible for the death of little Pea. She even admitted to feeling guilt over being pregnant again, which must be a horrible thought to blight a new pregnancy with. I do my best to reassure her, but I know how the mind works, niggling and sniping at un-guarded moments.

This baby, like the last, is stubbornly presenting as breech. And the one thing that Schmoo will not countenance is turning her, because it is thought by her ob-guy that that is what may well have set off the whole disaster last time. And you know, I know, he knows and she knows, that thousands upon thousands of breech babies are turned, completely without any negative consequence every single year. If the wee one doesn’t turn, a Caesar will be flavour of the day.
You could say that she is being un-necessarily cautious, but in this, I support her to the hilt. To encourage her to do otherwise would simply make her re-live those horrible days all over again, even if this time all goes like clockwork.

And it is still a possibility that she will turn. After all, her mother was also stubbornly breech. Her other prefered position was transverse – she would lie like a giant lozenge, right across the width of my belly, roundy head at one side, roundy bum at the other, little feet kicking strongly at my stomach. She was turned but had reverted to her head-up bum-down position by the time I got back home from the hospital. But on the day of delivery, there she was, head down, ready to go. And this baby may well do the same.
I tell Schmoo this and she looks at me, hope shining tentatively in her eyes.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really.” I say.

All you can really do is to hope. And, if you have a mind for it, to pray.

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