The Flying Mamma

I’m sat here. Bawling. I’ve got breast milk I’ve pumped that I have to dump. And 4 more days before I can hold my son. Watching him sleep through the camera. Imagining him close. Inhaling his little curls and snuggling all night. When rosters are released, we spend a lot of time trying to rearrange our flights. Doing everything to minimise the time our son spends without us. But. We also get “standby” months. No roster. Just our souls, ready and available. Day by day. I’ve been dreading it.  D R E A D I N G it since coming back from maternity leave. Wondering how we’d cope when we’d be rostered for it - let alone both of us together. I felt sick. Siiiiiccckkk.  Imagine not knowing if you are leaving or for how long. Intriguing? I can assure you that it’s absolutely not. It’s nerve wracking enough if you’ve got cats, let alone children. So standby, in  the middle of the night. After 4 days off. You know what that means?  Legality wise in aviation, it translates to wel...

I was waiting a lot in the beginning. Waiting for weird ass cravings. Waiting for smells to turn me off. Waiting to vomit. But nothing.  Feeling no different to any other day for the first 5 or 6 months. Cucumber was the only culprit, giving me rib breaking indigestion. And  I was also graced with a 24 hour bout of vertigo. Had me feeling like I was on a long distance hangover. While all the waiting was happening, we had a long list of tests on our fancy antenatal package to get through. We were that overwhelmed that we just said yes. Covered by insurance? Yes. Out of pocket? Yes.  “What if?” we said. “Book us in!” We said. Did you know you don’t actually need to do any of it? Not even one ultrasound? Now this bewildered me.  Because we’ve subconsciously been conditioned to consider pregnancy, labour and childbirth to be some sort of medically controlled state. We’ve forgotten that since the beginning of time, women have conceived and given birth.  Wild and free...

And there we were. Nervously holding hands. Excited like kids at Christmas. Taking pictures, the first of many (ok, thousands) that will tell our baby’s story. In comes our ob-gyn. Freezing cold gel on my tummy. Ultrasound probe pressed and circling. Black and grey screen, searching, searching. Until we saw it. Life! The smallest silhouette. The rapid rhythm of a tiny heart, glowing on every beat. And a nickname, already brewing. Our little glow worm. Did anyone else have that glow worm toy as a child? With the face that lit up? That’s exactly where my mind went when I saw the ultrasound. And with that, life changed. For real. I mean, we went and purchased a crib that very day for fuck’s sake. A crib, might I add, thats never been used!  Anyway. Scan’s done. Now what? I was completely lost. When’s the next appointment? I’m pregnant. Surely I must be checked and probed every couple of weeks? And that’s when I realised. I knew absolutely nothing. Relying heavily on the system. Alread...

I’m sure I can pinpoint the actual day it happened. But according to my new, non-obsessive fertility calculations, it didn’t make any sense. I was 2 weeks late, but also late the month before. So I assumed my cycle was just adjusting.  No symptoms, no signs of nothing. Maybe just my uniform clinging a little tighter (and a curious husband asking one too many questions). I procrastinated taking a test, mustering up the courage one night at 1am while he was sleeping. Anticipating our lives changing in the next few moments. Forever. “Pregnant 3+”. I stood. Frozen. Awkwardly giggling. Finding comfort knowing my nonna was there in spirit with me. Then I very calmly went on footlocker.com to buy some baby Jordans. With nothing that my fussy, premature mum-brain liked, I surprised hubs with a heart attack instead. Jumping on him in the dark, frantically waving the test in his sleepy eyes. I can still see the way he smiled at me. What a moment. Our little secret, finally here. Nobody knew ...

7 months of trying. Peeing on ovulation sticks, hoping to be greeted by flashing smilies. Waiting for our rosters each month (hubby flies too) to see if we’d be in the same country when nature called. Downloading apps. All sorts of vitamins. Calculating maximum swimmer survival days versus potential egg encounters. Visualising my fallopian tubes doing their thang and tuning into every twinge of pain or sign of ovulation. I was obsessed. Stories of our colleagues who couldn’t get pregnant daunted on us. Hearing that many finally did once they stopped flying. Wondering how long this will take us. Already fear mongered that maybe, our bodies wouldn’t be capable. Then on one particular day, everything was perfect. Like clockwork. I just knew I was going to get pregnant. Even the smiley was smiling. Everything I smelled in the following weeks was pregnant-level strong. I swear I even had phantom taste aversions. Driving myself mad, imagining each cramp was a sign of implantation. But, negat...

So. Back to chewed up nips and piranha teeth. Allow me to clarify. My longing for simple and natural things such as the above mentioned (yes, we co-sleep; yes, we’re still on our breast feeding journey), comes from a choice I made almost 13 years ago. I decided to become a flight attendant. Yes yes, incredible life experience (hashtag grateful), but a shock to the nervous system as a parent.  For me - who now believes being a stay at home mum (SAHM) is the dream - my job absolutely contradicts this new and rather surprising thought process of mine. Change career then? Resign? Go easy on me. It’s just not that simple. Instead I cherish every bedtime. And soak up every wake up. I let my little human latch on until the sun rises. Because I don’t get to do it every day. And it goes against every cell in my body that I can’t. I still cry. I can’t resonate just yet with flying mums who enjoy their “time off”. Time off?! Why?! I just can’t get my head around it. Will I ever? When you cons...