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A first time mum at 39, trying not to let my son kill me off too soon. Busy juggling a new family, a new house and a tricky recording schedule I figured blogging would be less expensive than therapy and less embarrassing than shouting at rude and stupid people in the street/on trains/at the supermarket.

Friday, 9 August 2013

When does the crying stop?

No, not my son's crying ... my own.

I have always been a 'bit of a sensitive soul' - not that I'd ever admit it.  I managed to hide my cinema-sobbing from my hubby quite well for at least the first 3 years of our relationship and a well-timed 'scoff', poking fun at the corny romance of a film served me well on many an occasion to mask my impending tears!

Then came the hormones.  Not the pretend hormones that creep up every few weeks, I'm talking about the full-on Rambo hormones that descend in early pregnancy and disappear around...well, I'm not too sure when they disappear. At this rate I think they will be putting me in my box before they finally leave.   These Super-Hormones make it impossible for you learn any sad news without blubbing like a toddler who's had his teddy taken away. 

This week, I was privileged to attend a private screening of a new film due to be released in the Autumn.  Philomena, featuring Dame Judi Dench and Steve Coogan.  I think I was barely 10 minutes into the film before I was silently wiping my face and chin.  This continued during regular intervals throughout the course of the film. On this occasion though, I would defy anyone not be moved by parts of this story - based on true events.  A young woman in Ireland gives birth to her illegitimate son without proper medical intervention and then has him taken away from her as a toddler so he can be 'sold' and adopted by a wealthy family.  The film tells of her 50 year silence, covering up her 'dirty little secret' until she finally has to find out what became of him.

It is a wonderful film but it's difficult to say that I enjoyed it because, in reality, it broke my heart.  The cruelty and ignorance of a bunch of nuns (don't get me started on organised religion...) and the damning of innocent young women by society makes my blood boil.  

I know that if I had watched it 3 years ago in the days Before Boychild, I would have had a little sob, but watching it now I was reduced to a snivelling wreck!  The thought of anyone taking my son away and giving me no information on his whereabouts or well-being would probably kill me.  I only have to think about the film and it brings tears to my eyes.

As a younger woman, my own mum and many others would tell me how, as a mother, you would lay down your own life for your child without a second thought.  I'll be honest, I always thought they were being slightly melodramatic.  But it's true.  I don't think there is anything I wouldn't do in order to keep Boychild safe. 

Anyway, I digress.  Even as I write this, my cousin has posted a picture on Facebook of the newly erected headstone at her sister's grave.  She died aged 34, leaving two children who are still only at primary school. I took one glance and I'm already off.  

Basically, I have to accept that I will be emotionally crippled forever.  I can't even read a book to my son without getting a little teary sometimes.  A few weeks ago he leaned in and gave me a sloppy wet kiss for the first time and it was completely spontaneous and unprompted.  I cried.  Somebody on Facebook recently implied I was 'abandoning my son to strangers' by leaving him at nursery to come to work and I was almost rendered inconsolable (followed by an overwhelming desire to punch them in the face).

It looks like I will have to spend the rest of my life travelling with a big box of tissues and wearing waterproof mascara.  And I don't care.  I guess that's what unconditional love does to you. 

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