my wee one would be 6 this month.

She would have started school, and be in primary 2 by now. She would have a granny who loved her very much. And a mummy who loved her more than she could ever love herself. Dressing up, and lunch boxes and days in the park. Losing her first teeth, skint knees and bogey monsters in the night. First gummy smiles, steps, words and friends.

6.

what if that was my only chance? He now has 2 kids of his own, and I couldnt have that one because my body decided it wasnt going to cope/ I wasnt able to cope. Did she know that I wasn't sure, or that I didnt feel ready? I dont know. I still grieve.

I cant keep shutting myself off, telling myself and people that I dont like, or want, children. Im broody as hell. But I'm scared to try, Im so fucking scared. I have a pish chance of conceiving, and an even pisher chance of not carrying the baby full term. I KNOW thats what went wrong 6 years ago, and that I shouldnt blame myself, cant blame myself. But theres always that nagging little voice that asks, if I found out earlier, If he stuck by me, if I gave up work sooner - Would any of it have changed?

But then I wouldnt have met Paul. And much as he drives me mental at times, and much as I wonder if we're right for each other, I cling to him because he is mine, I am his and his love for me is unconditional. I just panic that Im not enough for him, and won't ever be enough. I know that part of that is natural, but I know the extent that I obsess over it probably isnt. I wake up from nightmares where he's left me. And in those waking moments, before I realise it was all a dream, I feel so empty and desolate. Its those moments that I know that I love him truly, that I'm foolish to doubt myself/us and I hope that never changes. I know every inch of his skin better than I know my own, I know what its is to snuggle into him when he's asleep and smell the warm safe scent that is my husband. I can never be too close to him.

But part of me still aches for that baby.

I still grieve.