It seems rather fitting that The Little Mumma should return on the eve of the New Year after what became a very extended hiatus. New Year’s Eve has been something of an anti-climax over the years and now, in my role as The Little Mumma, it has been struck off the calendar all together. And so what better occasion to resurrect The Little Mumma. Clearly, I have no plans tonight.

So back to the hiatus. Readers may complain that no warning was given. They would be within their rights to demand an explanation. And here it is. I got knocked up. And in this ripe state, there lay fertile writing ground. A seeded womb was like hitting the motherload for a little blog like The Little Mumma. And yet, virtual tumbleweeds have passed by as have the months. I meant to write something. I had any number of amusing musings to share. If ever The Little Mumma should be fairly bursting with new material, it was now. Instead, silence.

Here’s the thing. This pregnancy KICKED MY ARSE. It really, really did. I was the walking dead. From the moment my toddler son woke in the morning, I clock-watched until it was nap time. I started pushing for a 9am nap time but since that was three hours earlier than he was used to, LD resisted it. I, on the other hand, was more than ready for a wee kip. Sometimes I’d just fall asleep on the couch, my dreams punctuated by weird flashes of the number of the day or Makka Pakka and his uff-uff. I’d startle awake and look around wildly for my poor, neglected son who happily, never found the knife drawer, the talcum powder or other disasters waiting to happen.

B suggested putting LD in care one day a week. It would give me a break and LD would almost certainly benefit from the new experience. No, I’d cried. He’s too little. And plus, we can’t send him off to spend the day with strangers. I’m a stay-at-home mum for god’s sake! It’s my job. No, he’s far better off at home, watching DVDs on repeat while his mother lies on the couch semi-conscious and drooling onto the scatter cushions.

On a good day, I decided to take LD to the park. The poor kid was a normal toddler who needed to run and play, to be challenged and stimulated. And I was damned if I was going to let this pregnancy lark get in the way of my boy and I having fun. I was a young and active woman! So off to the park we went. I quickly surveyed the area for a place to park my butt and promptly did so as LD began to run with wild abandon. It was lovely to behold. An active toddler, burning off that extra energy, running in the playground. Running to the opposite side of the playground to me. Ignoring my call to stay within the tan-bark area. Really putting some distance between he and I now. So far away that I’ll need to sprint in order to catch him before he runs out of grass and hits bitumen. And then of course, when Mumma runs after you, it’s a game. It’s a game you want to play A LOT.

For several days after the park incident, LD was like a broken record. “Run? Run?” he would ask, his little face upwardly turned, bright with hope. “No, mate, that’s a Daddy game. Wait until Daddy gets home,” I would soothe from my place on the couch. It took only several more days for me to kill that hope entirely. We would both hold our breath until the momentous homecoming of “Daddeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” – LD overjoyed that someone might be anything but inert and me just relieved not to have to see that forlorn little face for a second longer.

About the only special time LD and I shared throughout the pregnancy revolved, most piteously and horrifyingly, around French fries. In place of physical activity, I offered my 2-year-old son deep fried potato. Sometimes I would also promise a visit to the ducks that lived by the lake of another park we happened to pass on our way to and from McDonalds. Time and time again, as we approached the park, my foot just seemed to glue itself to the accelerator. “Ducks?” LD would ask. “Yes, there are the ducks. Say bye bye ducks!” I’d cry as we sped past. “Bye bye ducks” came the sad little voice in back. I soon quieted it with shrieks of “More chippies?”

The months ran into themselves. My belly swelled. My son developed a look for me that fell just short of complete contempt. B held it together as best he could. Sometimes I fed people or washed garments. Sometimes.

But no writing. Nary a shopping list did I put pen to.

Finally, in the last month of my pregnancy, there came a night when I felt I needed to get some words down on the page. I had a list of stuff to do and I was determined to get all my ducks in a row. There was a sense of urgency. Unfortunately, the list also included writing in LDs baby book. I was committed to getting his baby records in order before I had another. And so instead of writing for The Little Mumma, I spent the evening trying to remember when my two and a half year old son first focused his eyes and the date his left incisor came through. I’d fallen a little behind.

And given the compulsion to get things in order and the sense of urgency with which I was driven, I should not have been surprised that less than 48 hours later, I was holding my brand new baby son, Zee.

So not a word did I write during this pregnancy…. well, excluding a journal that included such highlights as ‘I can no longer see my muff’. Certainly not a word scribed for my faithful audience. But in my defense, my tiny son arrived some three and a half weeks early and who can truly know what kind of feats of literary genius I would have brought forth in those final days. The way I see it, I was robbed of the opportunity. A whole month of which to be creatively brilliant was taken from me. And now we’ll never know. So here I am, a mother of two, reflecting on the very beginning of this piece which I began some twelve days ago. A piece which was to be a momentous New Year’s comeback is finally, somewhat anti-climatically, launched into cyberspace almost two weeks after it’s original inception. Post-pregnancy, the world still conspires to prevent me writing. I will prevail!

So what has motherhood taught me today? Typing while breastfeeding is a bitch.