9 weeks without Baby Tilda today.
Two months of people telling me how Matilda Mae has helped them to be a better parent, a better person.
How they are more patient with their children.
That they spend more quality time as a family.
That they do not mind if their children make a mess.
How they find it easier to deal with moans and whinges and whines.
How they have become a calmer referee of fights between their offspring.
Everyone has been changed in some way for the better by the little life of Matilda Mae.
Everyone but me.
I am not a better mummy.
I am not doing more for my family.
I am not making the most of every moment of our time.
I am not able to deal with silly sibling rivalries whilst remaining calm.
Matilda Mae has not made me better.
She has left me.
And left me much much worse.
I do not feel that I am making the most of Esther and William.
In fact often I am terrified of being on my own with them.
Esther and William are adorable children and incredibly well behaved.
Why am I so scared of being with them?
I should embrace their loveliness.
Wrap myself up in their loving cuddles and infectious giggles.
I should fly high on the wings of their attention and love.
Revel in their cleverness and creativity.
Laugh at their comedy antics.
But I do not.
And I know that the fault lies not with them.
But with me.
I am scared of being a bad mummy.
I am scared of being a good mummy.
I am scared of being a mummy.
Of not loving my children enough.
Of loving my children too much.
I am terrified that something will happen to them too.
But it is more than that.
My heart feels so heavy.
I have forgotten how to have fun and be carefree.
There is a dark edge to everything I do.
Because it stabs my heart that Tilda is not here.
In the heart of our family.
As she should be.
Wherever we go I miss Tilda.
Whatever we do I miss Tilda.
And it is not the kind of missing that makes a hazy smile.
It is not the kind of missing that warms your heart.
It is a twisting, stabbing, searing, shocking, cruel and unbearable missing.
And it hits without warning.
And it knocks me to the floor.
Sometimes I just cannot work out how to pick myself up.
Not without that beautiful gummy smile.
Not without that cheeky little baby.
Not without those expressive chocolatey eyes.
Framed with those feathery lashes.
How can my baby be gone?
How can she not ever come back?
I am not sure I am ever going to be patient and kind.
I am not sure that I am ever going to be the mummy I always wanted to be.
I am not sure I am ever going to be anything good again.
And that scares me, frightens me, worries me.
What will I become?
Without my baby what will I be?
What should I be?
I don’t want to be an inspiration to others.
That poor lady without her baby.
I want to be me.
If only I could remember who I am.
Or even when and where I last saw her.
I want Matilda’s legacy to apply to me.
I want to be an inspirational mummy.
I want to keep my children safe from harm.
I want to clothe them and feed them and love them.
I want to make their lives full of fun.
I just don’t know if I can.
Everyone else can it seems.
Everyone but me.