I’ve been away for a camping weekend with some work friends. It’s the first time I’ve been away from Moo without my husband, we had a few days in Paris last year. I was feeling anxious about going, MrTPM is absolutely my crutch, I lean on him for so much emotional support. I don’t know why I felt worried about the weekend, I know my friends well, I’d trust them with my life, and we were just going to chill out by the sea.
Pumping while sleeping in a tent in July temperatures would mean throwing the milk away. Sad as that is, I have a plentiful freezer stash and had left bottles in the fridge. I’d have to overcome pumping around new people, but I talk about it often enough that its not too alien.
I didn’t think for a moment that I’d miss Moo. I was looking forward to getting away from her, as harsh as that sounds. Just having a chance to sit down, drink hot tea, sit in the sun with my book and a cider. The relief of severing the chains of responsibility for 36 hours or so, bliss.
But sat on the beach at Croyde Bay, listening to the waves, filled with hundreds of surfers, looking like tiny black ants amongst the spray, I watched a small blonde girl with pig tails, about the same age as Moo, play in the sand and cling to her mother after getting upset. Her little chubby hands balled into a fist as she clutched her mums shirt, her pink feet pattering on the wet sand as she dug a hole with her brothers, I was reminded of Moo.
And I missed her. Her little bottom lip stuck in a pout whilst sulking, pouring me a cup of tea with her tin tea pot, the cry of ‘wee wee Mummy’ and the frenzied dash to the potty.
To be missing her is a relief. To think that I resented her at the beginning, spent those newborn days wishing she hadn’t been born, sobbed into my pillow, desperate to run away, it all seems a million miles away.
And I’m glad.