The desperate search for mindfulness
It's 5pm, I'm frazzled. It's late November and I have only been properly back at work since September after a frighteningly fast maternity leave but it's the longest term of the year and I'm stressed. Work is stressful, being a working mum is even more stressful, being a working mum who yffers from anxiety and PCOS is, at times almost unbearable.
We have just arrived home after running about here there and everywhere to stock up on boring household cleaning products and other paraphernalia such as toilet roll and scented candles, we also stopped by the shops to pick up our weekly food shop despite this we still picked up take away as neither of us could face cooking.
I gather up as many bags as I can, including the warm carrier bag containing our dinner, I can't face having to traipse back out again to do another trip up the stairs so I'm determined to do it in one. My Husband gaps a few bits and I take my son's hand loosely. He has been getting more and more confident with his walking and he likes to walk into our entrance hall by himself now.
I struggle though the gate with bags dangling here and there and his tiny hand clasped in mine as he awkwardly walks just slightly in front of me.
It happens so quickly I barely register it but suddenly my tiny little boy is on the floor, there is an audible sound as his head hits the concrete step and his hand leaves mine quite suddenly. My heart freezes as I drop everything and hurriedly pick him up. Blood covers his tiny soft cheek and mingles with anguished tears. I race him upstairs in a strange bubble of calm.
My hands shake slightly as I begin to clean his small warm face, his huge eyes blink up at me scared and shocked. I feel numb, as though I'm on the edge of hurtling into a frenzy of panic. My husband is rattled but calmly switches into the eclat same person he adopted when I was in Labour with my baby. The decision is made to take him to a&e.
We arrive at the hospital, neither of us have been there since the day we took Oscar hime 14 months ago. We sit calmly in the waiting area, I can't help but think I should be freaking out more, that they might take my child away because I'm not emotional enough! We are seen quickly and efficiently and our bouncing boy cries only when the nurse cleans the wound. Luckily I still have the power of boob to offer my toddler who gratefully accepts the offer of milk as a soothing comforter and welcome distraction. We leave the bright and harsh light of the emergency waiting area and our eyes adjust to the dark dampness of the car park. In a dreamlike state we sit I the car and wolf down our sweaty take out.
It is not until the next morning that I realise I have been in a state of shock, I look at my baby's smiling face and the huge gash held together with steristrips on his cheek, just below hus inquisitive eye, and I am overcome with emotion. I realise that I won't always be able to protect him in life and I realise how precious he is and how differently this simple slip on a wet step could have gone, all the alternative outcomes begin to rush through my head. I take a deep breath and squash the thoughts before the take hold.
I am reminded as I watch my little boy, still so small and dependant, of mindfulness. To do things slowly and in a measured way, to enjoy the small things and focus on the moment. I resolve to slow down and to not try and do EVERYTHING. Of course it is easier said than done but for the sake of my baby and my sanity it's a must. He changes so quickly and one day he will bound up and down stairs without me at all but for now he needs me to hold his hand and guide him, to demonstrate and to teach and I need to slow down, to always remember he is still so small and new and full of wonder.
We have just arrived home after running about here there and everywhere to stock up on boring household cleaning products and other paraphernalia such as toilet roll and scented candles, we also stopped by the shops to pick up our weekly food shop despite this we still picked up take away as neither of us could face cooking.
I gather up as many bags as I can, including the warm carrier bag containing our dinner, I can't face having to traipse back out again to do another trip up the stairs so I'm determined to do it in one. My Husband gaps a few bits and I take my son's hand loosely. He has been getting more and more confident with his walking and he likes to walk into our entrance hall by himself now.
I struggle though the gate with bags dangling here and there and his tiny hand clasped in mine as he awkwardly walks just slightly in front of me.
It happens so quickly I barely register it but suddenly my tiny little boy is on the floor, there is an audible sound as his head hits the concrete step and his hand leaves mine quite suddenly. My heart freezes as I drop everything and hurriedly pick him up. Blood covers his tiny soft cheek and mingles with anguished tears. I race him upstairs in a strange bubble of calm.
My hands shake slightly as I begin to clean his small warm face, his huge eyes blink up at me scared and shocked. I feel numb, as though I'm on the edge of hurtling into a frenzy of panic. My husband is rattled but calmly switches into the eclat same person he adopted when I was in Labour with my baby. The decision is made to take him to a&e.
We arrive at the hospital, neither of us have been there since the day we took Oscar hime 14 months ago. We sit calmly in the waiting area, I can't help but think I should be freaking out more, that they might take my child away because I'm not emotional enough! We are seen quickly and efficiently and our bouncing boy cries only when the nurse cleans the wound. Luckily I still have the power of boob to offer my toddler who gratefully accepts the offer of milk as a soothing comforter and welcome distraction. We leave the bright and harsh light of the emergency waiting area and our eyes adjust to the dark dampness of the car park. In a dreamlike state we sit I the car and wolf down our sweaty take out.
It is not until the next morning that I realise I have been in a state of shock, I look at my baby's smiling face and the huge gash held together with steristrips on his cheek, just below hus inquisitive eye, and I am overcome with emotion. I realise that I won't always be able to protect him in life and I realise how precious he is and how differently this simple slip on a wet step could have gone, all the alternative outcomes begin to rush through my head. I take a deep breath and squash the thoughts before the take hold.
I am reminded as I watch my little boy, still so small and dependant, of mindfulness. To do things slowly and in a measured way, to enjoy the small things and focus on the moment. I resolve to slow down and to not try and do EVERYTHING. Of course it is easier said than done but for the sake of my baby and my sanity it's a must. He changes so quickly and one day he will bound up and down stairs without me at all but for now he needs me to hold his hand and guide him, to demonstrate and to teach and I need to slow down, to always remember he is still so small and new and full of wonder.
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