Sunday, 16 January 2011
On Thursday, January 13th, I kissed my husband many times, knowing I'd be lacking in cuddles and kisses for nearly 3 months, and went through the gates of security. At the last minute, he gave me a postcard that he had written on and told me to read it on the plane.
Anyway, so yeah. Little babies are on my mind, and thinking about holding one is at the forefront. So as I stood there in the aisle considering whether or not I should change seats, I decided I would try to ride it out. I calmly sat down and said hi to the little family sitting in my row. And then I started crying as I sneaked looks at the little baby, a little girl named Annabelle, trying so hard to calm the rising hysteria. She stared at me with her unseeing blue eyes and I realized that she wasn't a threat. I didn't want her like I wanted my own baby. She was there, living and breathing, the miracle that she is, and I didn't hate her. I touched her little hand and looked at her closely. I felt ok. I made small talk with her proud parents and found out that Annabelle was 9 weeks old. We chatted about Scotland, Canada and Japan and our plans. It was ok. Then I read the hell out of The Scotsman, The Toronto Star and Psychologies.