Weekends are a lonely time. A stretch of restless, timeless hours. Sunrise rolls into sunset and back out again, like a tide of light that bookmarks the days. Weekends used to be days I looked forward to, for family time. The house feels so empty and quiet when it should have been a busy and noisey time with our baby on the way.
There’s no nursery to finish off, no car seat to collect, no cloth nappies to prepare, no blankets to wash & dry on the line, no “wife, do that DIY before the baby comes” and no maternity leave to plan.
No 3rd trimester afternoon naps, no bump for my wife to put moisturiser on anymore or to kiss goodnight, no kicks or movements, no cravings, no maternity clothes, no shiney hair and glowing skin.
No excitement, no plans, no role or purpose, no life planned out, no day dreams about places to show him or things to teach him. No anxiety about breast feeding, no antenatal appointments or baby yoga. No sleepless nights, no teething, no colic and no screaming. No new baby smell, no snuffly noises, no cuddles and kisses.
Just a void of raw sadness and the anxiety of such a vast empty space now he has gone. I don’t know what to do with myself at the weekends now. Is this it? Is this life?