Scary stories from a lovely place
It was indeed a real disappointment for me that I didn’t keep my vow and write a blog post everyday of May. A few times during the month I wanted to skip a day, but Stephen cajoled me into writing something, anything. I was very committed to it. I even posted on the 30th, about 5 hours before something enormous happened. But I have a good reason for missing the last day of the month. The bomb has landed. Silas Patrick Reid is no longer a potential name for a potential son, but the name of a real, living person.
When I first held him on Sunday morning I couldn’t believe that this not-so-tiny-after-all baby had just been inside my body. After the birth lots of people congratulated me and said I did really well. I don’t know if that’s true. I feel like Silas did it all, and Stephen, Ntombi my midwife, and the other nurses did a few things. I just tried to keep out of the way. Silas was the circus master, the architect, the train conductor. And boy did he come out like an express train. We arrived at the Genesis Clinic at 9:15am. He was born at 10:15am. It was insanely painful for that one hour. But it was only for an hour. I don’t know how people do that pain for longer.
Today my lovely friend Brigitte came for a visit and in between cleaning the house, washing the dishes and holding a very asleep Silas she told me about baby things Rwandan style. Apparently when a Rwandan woman has a baby she is longer referred to by her name, but rather as her child’s mum. So if I were Rwandan I would no longer be called Kim, but Mama Silas. Brigitte said that everyone would call me that. Kim would cease to exist and Mama Silas would from then on occupy her space. Even though it signifies loss of personal identity and marks the huge dependance of a child upon a mother, I like it. And from my small experience of motherhood, so far it’s pretty accurate.