Becoming a mother was something I had prayed for. Yet, when it finally happened after years of trying to conceive, I felt a sense of grief. I grieved for my life before the baby and it felt irrational that I should feel this way – because along with the sadness, there was also immense joy.
The first time I felt this grief was a few weeks postpartum. It was 4am and I was startled awake by a high-pitched screech beside me. It took me a while to realise that the screams were coming from my baby boy.
By then, I should’ve understood that waking up every hour of the night was a pastime of his. Barely awake, I could see my husband getting the diaper change area ready. Then it clicked.
Our baby had let out a huge “poopsplosion” – and yes, it means what you think. After my husband changed our son’s diaper and I nursed him back to sleep, I was exhausted but couldn’t fall asleep myself – so I went on Instagram. There, I saw that a group of my friends had gone on an impromptu trip overseas.
Seeing their posts, I felt a sudden pang of longing. I thought to myself: “I wish I could do that too.” I’ve always valued spontaneity and I am a classic case of someone with severe FOMO – Fear of Missing Out.
I love random suppers, sudden meet-ups, and saying “Let’s go!” to last-minute plans with my friends. Buying movie tickets on a whim is an idea of fun and if a friend texted, “Teh, tonight?” at 7pm on a weekday, I’d be quick to reply, “See you there!”. That.
