Dear 2012

The Christmas tree trying to grab the Christmas tree  

Dear 2012,

So, it would be fair to say that you were QUITE a significant year. This time last year, I was probably in the same place I am right now (sitting on the couch at my parent’s beach house at Torquay, looking out at the water and eating cherries), except this year I have a baby and a husband. My family has grown and I have grown and I have a freaking baby. A BABY.

Sometimes I look at him and wonder how on earth he got here. How nearly seven months ago he was an unknown wriggly octopus in my tummy, and nine months before that he didn’t exist at all. And now there is a new person in the world. A tiny, lumpy, squawky new person who likes sweet potato and eating books and his Nan’s silver bracelets and is stubborn and noisy and always falls asleep in the car.

You kicked my ass, 2012. The first half of the year was all pregnancy glow and baby preparations and happy fun times, and after June 7 it was all HOLY CRAP WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS/ THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER.

At the four week health nurse visit, I had to fill out a form with questions like ‘How often do you feel overwhelmed?,’ How often do you have trouble sleeping?’ and ‘How often do you feel sad for no reason?’ and because I answered ‘ALL THE FREAKING TIME’ to most of the questions I got referred to a psychiatrist. I saw her three times and was reassured that occasionally regretting my decision to procreate and that sometimes having horrible thoughts towards my gorgeous new baby in the middle of the night after being awake for 40 straight hours didn’t mean that I was a terrible person.

In retrospect, I didn’t have postnatal depression, just hardcore sleep deprivation and lasting baby blues, but it was still shitty. I remember not even being able to comprehend getting to Christmas alive.

So, you know what, 2012? I kicked your ass right back. Lee and I got married and Archie is still in one piece and we are all sane and happy and alive.

Bring it on, 2013.