The most amazing band I never got to see is coming back to the UK for their last ever performances and playing in Manchester.
I have been quite stressed about this, because I know we have two tickets, and I know in the back of my mind that, when it comes to it, only S will get to go. This is just one of a number of incidents in the last few weeks that’s made me sit up and think about how things that I once took for granted are going to become enormously challenging. Something is very, very shortly going to become more important than all of that stuff.
I have spent a lot of time over the last 9 months worrying about money, and it all sort of ended in me having a bit of a meltdown last weekend. It doesn’t matter how many ways I turn it over in my head, I don’t have a plan, we don’t have a way to cope beyond the first 10 months. Then, this week, I got offered a small freelancing job, which turned into about 2 weeks work, and my brain exploded. It’s the most phenomenal opportunity, but I’m taking it on at a time when I’m going to be at home looking after my newborn baby – the first 2 terrifying months – by myself, for the first time ever. Yes yes yes I want the job but holy fucking shit I have no idea how that is going to work. Where to draw the line between my new tiny, screaming first priority and earning us the money that will enable us to survive. They tell us we can do it all, have it all, but I know that’s a myth. So what’s going to give?
I had been so perfectly cool and calm about everything, and now I have The Fear. The fear about labour (he hasn’t moved, and I can’t stop reading back-to-back birth stories on the internet and terrifying myself – I swear I’m not a massochist I’m genuinely just trying to find some non-horrific ones), about being unable to manage by myself afterwards, about not letting my career stagnate so I can actually go out and earn us some money to live on at some point, about this being the biggest thing I’ve ever done and the terrible, pernicious fear of failing at it.
I’m not an idiot, I know this Fear stuff had to come and dress itself in scary makeup and say “BOO!” really loudly to me at some point, and it’s not surprising that I’m sitting here on my due date having finally had it leap out and shout in my face.
There have been so many lovely people reassuring me about this, and so much has really helped. Have faith is the big one. Trusting instincts, not overthinking it (not my forte at the best of times). But the best thing I’ve heard came from my Mum, who simply said “you won’t care when he’s here”. Or rather, I will care, but not in the same way. Same furniture, different room. So there’s no point worrying about making my bed yet, before I’ve got to get in and lie in it.