I desperately want another baby. Not a replacement baby, no-one could ever replace our wonderful, funny, unique, darling William. But I need to hold a baby in my arms again, MY baby, OUR baby. To be a mummy again. My mummying was prematurely and abruptly stripped away from me. I have more to give, I need to finish the job. And Izzy keeps asking me for another brother or sister. I can't bear the thought of not raising another child, loving, caring for, teaching a new little life.
I also feel the need for another reason. Some of you may feel this is selfish, but I feel another baby would be destiny's way of forgiving me for losing William. And the guilt weighs so heavy on me. Why didn't I check all over the place before I left William to run around after I brought him down from his nap? If I'd checked outside I would have seen that the security gate had not closed properly. But it was always closed so why would I? Why weren't my mothers' instincts strong enough to tell me something was amiss earlier? When I did suddenly think, I haven't heard or seen William in a few minutes, it was too late. Those instincts kicked in too late - I actually got up and ran from my desk, ran outside, saw the terrace where we eat empty, looked left, saw the gate open, looked in the pool....
And so this is the scene of just a few seconds that replays in my mind. The scene I wake up to every morning. I spend hours rewinding time in my head and torture myself with so many different versions of 'If only...'. I have to try and tell myself it wasn't my fault, it was a tragic accident. Otherwise I might really end up mad, as much as that's where I want to be sometimes when it all gets too much.
We used to call William our little 'cascadeur' - the French word for stuntman. Even before he could walk, we'd find him lying precariously across the top of the sofa. Just recently, Isabelle had taught him how to climb up the OUTSIDE of the stair banisters so we used to find him half way up the outside of the stairs all the time; one time we were at my friend John's house and he'd built a crow's nest up from his roof terrace to the roof to benefit from the views. In no time at all, William was half way up the ladder! He was so accident-prone, so immune to the concept of danger, we used to joke that he had a season ticket to casualty (apparently Olivier was the same when he was young). Another sick joke now.
The photo left shows William around his first birthday, having tumbled over the front of his tractor ride-on in the garden and consequently requiring stitches inside his nose, as well as the grazing you can see. Still smiling away. He never grumbled. But back to my original topic. Olivier has delivered me an emphatic NO to having another baby. I am 44 years old. For now, everything is working ok (I've been checked out). But for how long? What if he changes his mind in a year or two years and it's too late for me? Will I resent him for denying me the chance of another baby? Will he resent me if he changes his mind, and it's too late for me to give him another baby? He's only 32 - he has what, 30 years left?
I realise I need to give him time, but unfortunately it's not a commodity that we are in abundance of. So I feel now that I am doubly-grieving; for the loss of William and for the loss of the chance to give life to another baby, to love another baby. And for the chance of redemption.
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