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View as: GRID LIST

Baby On Tour

1
I’m on my back, legs spread, staring at the ceiling.
Its the Monday after glastonbury and I’m in a darkened room, piecing together the night before.

There I was, traipsing back through Pilton, ears ringing, half eaten burrito in one hand, clutching a familiar pain with the other. Another ovarian cyst? That’d be the sixth one my ovaries had made for me in 5 years.
Lying back now, in this disarmingly quiet room, I think about the imminent album launch for our new band Equador.  Another operation to get in the way of work again? More time out?

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2
More general anaesthetic? I’ve only just got married. I’ve got work to do, this really isn’t cool.

I’ve made a million trips to hospital like this, I know the signs.
I know the ache of a growing cyst eventually becoming a twisting knife.. and I clutch my hipbone. The one that was inked with a chinese symbol by a ponytailed man in Camden Market when I was fourteen.  Fourteen going on 22. I always felt older than my years as a teenager.
And then my Mum died, and I was a child all over again. Fourteen again, Sixteen at a push.
Maybe it was

SelfishMother.com
3
the lack of sleep at Glastonbury, or the searing pain in my side, but thoughts were diving over each other in my head and I felt sure I was losing it.
I’m in hospital. I miss my Mum. I miss her so much. I’m not even sure I’ve grieved properly. What is properly? How on earth are you meant to “let go”?  I can’t just LET HER GO. I need parenting still.  Should I have cancer check ups too? How do you check up on Pancreatic cancer anyway? I left the back door open before coming to London. I bet we were burgled.  Shite. There’s nothing to nick
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4
anyway. God I hope this record works. Imagine, if all our hard work actually pays off… 
And I’m not even really listening when the radiologist removes the probe, wipes it down and adopts a calm, measured tone. ”Thats not a cyst Bo”  he says, wiping my stomach down, ”that there is your baby.”

****

Two weeks later I’m on a morphine drip wondering if I’m creating a junkie. Yet another addict to add to the long list from my fathers side of the family?
I’ve seen specialist gynaecologists, gastroentologists, endocrinologists; ALL the

SelfishMother.com
5
ologists. Nobody knows whats wrong with me and I’m in so much pain I am starting to wonder if I can do this at all. I try to focus on the fact that I’ve got friends struggling to conceive, that I’m so very fortunate to be fertile at all. We had planned to do this. Just not now.  We had planned on maybe trying after the record. And the promo. And the tour. And, you know, when I felt ”ready.”
Cos I love kids. Don’t I?

I’m a worrier, the worst kind. And I try to pay little attention to the moronic midnight thoughts that come at me like great

SelfishMother.com
6
tidal waves of doom.
Now that i’ve chosen to ‘breed’ would my artistic self fly out the window just as soon as i lay down on the birthing table?? (Is there such thing as a birthing table?)
Would all my creativity, my endless time for thought and analysis, my belief that one must suffer for ones art – disappear to the same place as my dignity as i swiftly become another mother on the conveyor belt that is “giving birth.” And then to motherhood, what will i write about? Surely everything will be glorious by then and i’ll have nothing on my
SelfishMother.com
7
mind bar the well being of my beloved child. And no one ever wrote a good song about that. And so on.
I know these thoughts are truly ridiculous, i know that anyone who’s been through it has become a warrior.
Mothers are AMAZING. My Mother was amazing.
And so what if none of my idols are ‘mums’ yet. Sure, Alison mosshart hasn’t become a “mum” yet, but Patti Smith has.
Right?
And then i’m 6 weeks pregnant. All work is postponed. I can’t be discharged because I’m still in unbelievable amounts of pain.  I’m bloated and in a grey haze
SelfishMother.com
8
of opiates. We’ve worked so hard on the record and now, right when we should be knee deep in promo, I can’t even move. The team are talking of moving the album release back. I feel guilty and helpless and so endlessly sick.
Then one of my peers, an artist who shall remain nameless puts out a statement about her own pregnancy that reads something along the lines of “I’m pregnant now so you won’t be seeing much of me, I don’t want to feel the pressure to look a certain way in my pregnancy.”
I can’t decide whether to be jealous of her
SelfishMother.com
9
ability to just take time out and eat hobnobs, or disappointed that i won’t have another ”slightly fatter than before” wing woman out in the public eye too, worrying about whether her left breast is going to leak in front of the audience, and reminding people what it really looks like to be pregnant.  I don’t have a choice, and I’ll definitely be eating hobnobs.
People will sigh, oh the wonder of the female anatomy. And I will bask in the glory of my supremely fat ass.

Friends come and go, my husband barely leaves my side, he is my rock, he is

SelfishMother.com
10
my saviour. And yet, underneath it all, the only person I really want is my Mum. So how can i possibly be ready to be one…?

*******************************

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- 7 Oct 16

I’m on my back, legs spread, staring at the ceiling.
Its the Monday after glastonbury and I’m in a darkened room, piecing together the night before.

There I was, traipsing back through Pilton, ears ringing, half eaten burrito in one hand, clutching a familiar pain with the other. Another ovarian cyst? That’d be the sixth one my ovaries had made for me in 5 years.
Lying back now, in this disarmingly quiet room, I think about the imminent album launch for our new band Equador.  Another operation to get in the way of work again? More time out? More general anaesthetic? I’ve only just got married. I’ve got work to do, this really isn’t cool.

I’ve made a million trips to hospital like this, I know the signs.
I know the ache of a growing cyst eventually becoming a twisting knife.. and I clutch my hipbone. The one that was inked with a chinese symbol by a ponytailed man in Camden Market when I was fourteen.  Fourteen going on 22. I always felt older than my years as a teenager.
And then my Mum died, and I was a child all over again. Fourteen again, Sixteen at a push.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep at Glastonbury, or the searing pain in my side, but thoughts were diving over each other in my head and I felt sure I was losing it.
I’m in hospital. I miss my Mum. I miss her so much. I’m not even sure I’ve grieved properly. What is properly? How on earth are you meant to “let go”?  I can’t just LET HER GO. I need parenting still.  Should I have cancer check ups too? How do you check up on Pancreatic cancer anyway? I left the back door open before coming to London. I bet we were burgled.  Shite. There’s nothing to nick anyway. God I hope this record works. Imagine, if all our hard work actually pays off… 
And I’m not even really listening when the radiologist removes the probe, wipes it down and adopts a calm, measured tone. “Thats not a cyst Bo”  he says, wiping my stomach down, “that there is your baby.”

****

Two weeks later I’m on a morphine drip wondering if I’m creating a junkie. Yet another addict to add to the long list from my fathers side of the family?
I’ve seen specialist gynaecologists, gastroentologists, endocrinologists; ALL the ologists. Nobody knows whats wrong with me and I’m in so much pain I am starting to wonder if I can do this at all. I try to focus on the fact that I’ve got friends struggling to conceive, that I’m so very fortunate to be fertile at all. We had planned to do this. Just not now.  We had planned on maybe trying after the record. And the promo. And the tour. And, you know, when I felt “ready.”
Cos I love kids. Don’t I?

I’m a worrier, the worst kind. And I try to pay little attention to the moronic midnight thoughts that come at me like great tidal waves of doom.
Now that i’ve chosen to ‘breed’ would my artistic self fly out the window just as soon as i lay down on the birthing table?? (Is there such thing as a birthing table?)
Would all my creativity, my endless time for thought and analysis, my belief that one must suffer for ones art – disappear to the same place as my dignity as i swiftly become another mother on the conveyor belt that is “giving birth.” And then to motherhood, what will i write about? Surely everything will be glorious by then and i’ll have nothing on my mind bar the well being of my beloved child. And no one ever wrote a good song about that. And so on.
I know these thoughts are truly ridiculous, i know that anyone who’s been through it has become a warrior.
Mothers are AMAZING. My Mother was amazing.
And so what if none of my idols are ‘mums’ yet. Sure, Alison mosshart hasn’t become a “mum” yet, but Patti Smith has.
Right?
And then i’m 6 weeks pregnant. All work is postponed. I can’t be discharged because I’m still in unbelievable amounts of pain.  I’m bloated and in a grey haze of opiates. We’ve worked so hard on the record and now, right when we should be knee deep in promo, I can’t even move. The team are talking of moving the album release back. I feel guilty and helpless and so endlessly sick.
Then one of my peers, an artist who shall remain nameless puts out a statement about her own pregnancy that reads something along the lines of “I’m pregnant now so you won’t be seeing much of me, I don’t want to feel the pressure to look a certain way in my pregnancy.”
I can’t decide whether to be jealous of her ability to just take time out and eat hobnobs, or disappointed that i won’t have another “slightly fatter than before” wing woman out in the public eye too, worrying about whether her left breast is going to leak in front of the audience, and reminding people what it really looks like to be pregnant.  I don’t have a choice, and I’ll definitely be eating hobnobs.
People will sigh, oh the wonder of the female anatomy. And I will bask in the glory of my supremely fat ass.

Friends come and go, my husband barely leaves my side, he is my rock, he is my saviour. And yet, underneath it all, the only person I really want is my Mum. So how can i possibly be ready to be one…?

*******************************

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