Happy Tuesday, everyone.
Today’s poem is a little more heartfelt and personal than the nonsense you may have come to expect from me by now.
(As always, you can read about the context for these bonkers poems here.)
My daughter turns one next week. I managed very little writing in the first few months of her life; since then, I’ve still struggled to write as much as I’d have liked to (but I’m slowly getting there).
The benefit of being self-employed and at home basically all the time is that I’ve been able to be an ever-present, very hands-on dad since Day 1 (standard paternity leave being just 2-weeks for fathers in the UK with more traditional working setups is simply mind-blowing when you think about it – especially so given that the arduous and painful recovery period mothers must endure after labour lasts far longer than a couple of weeks.)
That's enabled us to bond with one another, and for me to quickly build confidence in my abilities as a father. Being able to spend as much time with her as I have is precious, something for which I’ll be forever grateful.
The drawback of being self-employed and at home basically all the time is that it can be difficult not to be ever-present and hands-on: excusing myself so I can work comes with a huge, heavy dollop of guilt – especially those times I know my partner is exhausted.
So, generally, I’ve erred on the side of dad-duty rather than job-duty. But that comes with a sizeable slice of guilt too.
Consequently, when I’m working, I feel guilty I’m not Dad-ing, and when I’m Dad-ing, I feel guilty I’m not working. Basically, I live in a state of constant guilt! And whichever of the two activities - Dad-ing and working – that I’m doing, I’ve normally got at least half of my mind on the other. The guilt is fuelled further. Hooray!
Still, in those early months, I managed to write a handful of poems in quick succession, during a brief period of inspiration.
In fact, I felt so inspired that I thought writing many, many more would be a breeze; I set up an Instagram account, PapaPensPoems – Yep. Cringe away. I agree! – and an Etsy shop to sell instantly downloadable PDF prints of them, dreaming of making some passive income (LOL! I was in a zombified-state, to be fair).
I quickly abandoned and deleted the Instagram account when I realised
a) that, as rapidly as it had arrived, inspiration had left me, and
b) that I was too tired/lazy/inept to try to build its following.
I have, however, kept the Etsy shop (having removed many of the listings) as, to my surprise, strangers do occasionally buy a poem (mainly this one). The payments of £1.75 that trickle into my account after sales are surprisingly gratifying, and heartening – perhaps because I know I’d need to sell about 50 books to make the same amount (and only after earning out the advance, of course). And yes – I’m being serious!
Anyway, back to the main point. Some of the poems were humorous. Most were heartfelt. One, I turned into a picture book manuscript, which is currently on submission. And today’s poem is one that I’m a little nervous to share.
Why?
Well, partly because it feels incomplete – which it is: there was meant to be a Part Two. I never got round to writing it, and I doubt I ever will, purely because my memories of the time I’d be writing about are too blurred, too vague now, in my mind; I can no longer recall with precision my feelings at the time (which might be a good thing), or how my daughter felt in my arms when she was still a newborn (which is a shame), or her scent (which is probably good and bad…).
And partly because it’s personal and raw and possibly rubbish. I’m not confident I know what makes a good poem.
But what I do know is that this poem is honest – so it fits here quite nicely, I think.
Fourth Trimester (Part One)
The beginning’s just a blur.
From ‘what’s the plan?’ and ‘when will it happen?’
to ‘it’s happening now’, In a breath.
Scrubs on, scrub up: it’s time.
It’s checking your reflection
in a whiteboard you’ve mistaken for a mirror,
mind muddled.
Then brief relief,
as laughter punctures the tension between you.
It’s feeling in your bones you’re not ready,
Reluctant to wave goodbye
To the life you know so well,
Whilst longing to kick off your new one.
It’s pretending and projecting.
It’s your best swan impression,
Honed over months.
Unphased, unruffled, unflappable on the surface,
Beneath it
You’re kicking furiously to stay afloat.
It’s theatre.
Harsh lights on soft faces. Smiling eyes above surgical masks.
Meeting needles.
Meeting needs.
It’s pressing play on a playlist prepared for exactly now.
It’s immediately changing the song. (Thank you, Maggie Rogers.)
It’s distraction,
requesting favourite memories of beloved pets,
hoping your love hasn’t noticed, like you have,
that the surgical light is mirrored and reflecting
the fascinating horror it illuminates.
And then, just like that, it’s the first breath
And the first scream
of a life that’ll change your own forever.
It’s ‘Come and meet your baby’ and
I must not drop my baby
And it’s teary terror and elation
and ‘Hello, darling. I’m your dad.’
And then, eventually, it’s home…
As always, thanks for reading!
As a freelancing bilingual author and translator and mother of three, I recognise this guilt so much. I chose freelancing, because I wanted to be there for my children, but it has mean that I never truly have time off. Now they're all teenagers and one has gone off to university, the guilt has subsided, but with so many balls in the air, so many irons in the fire, to try to keep ever current as an author, time off still doesn't really exist.
I shall look forward to reading your posts as we write on a similar theme. I tend to describe my stack as "the backside of authoring" 🤓
Oh, how this made me miss my babies being babies! I gave birth to the both of them in one year, February and November. It was such a fun time for my husband and I. Now, they’re 17 and 18 and getting closer to being on their own. I’d like to rewind time for just a bit. Anyway, your poem was spot on and beautiful. I hope you print it, put it in a frame and hang it in her room. 🧡