I’ve finished a happy weekend of resting and face painting. Face painting is a funny thing. You can have the best of worst day depending on who you work with. Sometimes you get lucky and the people are amazing, so friendly and welcoming it’s the best job in the world. Sometimes it’s frankly horrible, drunk aggressive guys who try to touch you or parents who hit their stressed out kids in front of you. This weekend was the great kind, and today Rose and I finished a lovely gig by heading home via a little crafty town and buying blackcurrant and lime sorbet and window shopping.

I’m still pregnant, and not particularly feeling it. I am eating lots of smaller meals of veggies and fruit and my tastes have sorted from being keen on sweet to interested in salty flavours, which is pretty weird for me. Nausea isn’t an issue as long as I don’t eat anything too rich or processed. I’m drinking loads of water, sleeping well, and generally feeling all glowy and content with the world.

Except for my breasts, which are larger and extremely sensitive. Trying to sleep on my side feels like I have rock melons taped to my chest. Being bisexual I’m usually a big fan of breasts but at the moment I don’t get why we don’t have just flat chests with milk ducts and nipples. What the hell is with the rest of the breast tissue? Why? Grr. Mine are currently completely off limits to Rose and for the first time in my life it’s less painful to keep the bra on at the end of the long hot day. O.o

Rose and I are connecting with other Mums; baby wearers, queer mum’s, mum’s who have experienced pregnancy loss or still birth. There’s so many people put there going through similar things, in so many different ways we are part of big communities.

We feel blessed and hopeful and afraid in equal measure. Some nights it’s all bliss, others our little room is a a Tardis, expanding to fit all the fear and pain of loss. There’s such an experience of being human, our helplessness and vulnerability, how fragile our hearts are. We hold each other in the night and tears fall like stars. I tell Rose there’s room enough here for her fears, her ghosts too. As she drifts off to sleep she tells me “goodnight my favourite person, goodnight my favourite embryo”.