Shiva's and Metta's Mother's Sutra

It is raining. At this time of the year it is always raining. No socks, just shoes and Peter's jumper with a white snowflaked scarf and the trousers that Ma has stitched using discards from the Resource Centre to nip down to the local Spar. The beech tree is entrely bald now, although the spurs of tiny buds are beginning to appear. Sheathed in that papery casing that will suddenly litter the garden when spring arrives and the green fuse ignites. For some reason i felt elated, entirely happy. I was thinking of Mrs Dalloway, which i had watched last night, and the compromise that Woolf struggled herocially towards as she concluded the novel. A struggle she wasn't able to overcome in her own life as she took it. There are times in the past when i have felt like a faithless lover to life and allowed myself to slip away, to ignore it, to say no. To be so terrifically angry, but it impossible now to do this when i have a child and am about to have a child. As i returned with my treas...

I'm two weeks away from birth-day. The skin of my belly is stretched tight - like a new drum or the full moon herself. Like a thing which is heavy and round, I can no longer walk, but waddle, and i must roll off my side when getting out of bed or the sofa. I am cumbersome and ungracious when i accompany Oisin, who skips and runs with all the energy and expectancy of the five and a half years he is. As i watch the bobbing back of his dark, curly head, i feel a surge of joy and expectancy myself - another son to join the bouncing love parade. I have never understood the purpose of a blog, but for some reason i felt compelled today to set one up. I think with the thought of months of months of motherhood ahead of me, having some kind of contact with the outside world seemed quite attractive. The last time i became a mother, five years ago, i wasn't really prepared. I think i wanted to document this a bit more, share a bit more, and also to keep friends and family posted about the ...