anxiety, autism, autisticspectrum, Body dysmorphia, Bodydysmorphicdisorder, bodypositivity, depression, expat, family, mental health, mental illness, parenting, postnatal, postnataldepression, recovery

Wednesday. 

Rolling out of bed, baby in my arms, it’s 10am. 

We didn’t sleep, he knew that, and he left us in bed. 

The floor is swept, the bin is empty. 

I smile, those small things tell silently that he loves me. 

I put on my dressing gown. 

I know we will mostly be alone today, and while others find that notion worrying, I am quietly grateful. 

I’m making hot, strong coffee and she is in her chair. 

I take my vitamins and check on the weather, it’s raining, but I don’t mind. 

She quietly plays with the peanut butter lid and the contour set that I will never use. 

I’m putting down the toast, warming up her bottle and mentally running through my day.

I drag the high chair to the bathroom door to avoid screaming, and she happily watches me pee. 

I wash my hands and glance at my Fitbit for the time, looking up to see her grinning at me in the mirror. 

We eat our breakfast together. 

I sip my coffee, she plays with toys covered in margarine. 

A podcast plays in the background, the pans prepped with potatoes and veg for lunch bubble on low.  

We suit and boot and go for a walk. Humid, but enjoyable. 

She sleeps now and I put out lunch. 

He returns home and we talk genetics and history, fingers up bums. 

We laugh as we talk about the kids and their quirks. 

Hugs and a kiss.

1pm rolls around and he’s gone again. 

In the quiet I do my homework and sip more coffee. 

I piece together sentences about Swedish advertisements and hope they’re correct.

I peek through the window, she sleeps still.

I finish up my writing and sit in the silence, beautiful silence. 

Breathing in deep, I give quiet thanks for my new life.

Safe. Happy. Loved. 

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