(I wrote this on the plane and emailed it to myself. I hoped there might be some record of it if we crashed and burned. I fear this blog only says the bad stuff and I don’t want RB thinking that there isn’t a bloody wonderful side, too).
God I love this child. I’m flying back from a hen and three days away from RB. Leaving him was hard. I’m not sure I’d have arranged it after he was born, but I booked everything naively, pre-baby.
Returning to him is incredible. It’s been such fun to be free, get drunk, and sleep both eyes down, but I’m eager to hold my son again. I pumped while I was away to keep my supply going, and soften my rocks. People suggested I look at photos of him to encourage my milk but it made it harder for me, it made him more distant.
I’m a nervous flier. I always imagine a worst case scenario and make sure my Google inactive account manager is up to date. Normally I can console myself by remembering what a privilege it is to live a life with leisure flights, and that dying on a plane because I could afford a holiday would be a privileged way to die, in the grand scheme of things. I’m not starving to death, or being oppressed, or dying of AIDS despite drugs existing to save me. That privileged life logic doesn’t work for me now. I can’t die. I think it’s a way of understanding the depth of my love for this boy: there is a fate worse than my death and that’s leaving my son without a living mother.