‘Maybe I just need to get better at self gratification. No praise. No promotions. No money. Just a bottle of wine and a massive dildo.’
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An Open Letter To My Hormones
When we started this love affair you left me exhausted, spent, ravished and ravaged. Oh you made me sweat and pant, blush and glow like Mr Tumble at Glastonbury. As our courtship continued you gave me energy, confidence, determination to achieve, to flourish. Because of you I ignored the swollen limbs, the sciatica, the wobble. Because of you I felt invincible.
When baby arrived, you helped me through some of the hardest times in my life. When I thought I couldn’t get through another sleepless night, you were there for me. When I thought I couldn’t spend another second listening to the incessant whinging you reminded me of the love. When I thought I couldn’t possibly do another day, another week of the same routine, you reminded me that I could, and that I could do it better than last week. You inspired me to thrive, driving me onwards and giving me strength.
But the thing is, I know one day this sweet journey will end. This strikes a fear in me akin to the possible discontinuation of Viscount mint biscuits. What if I get enveloped by sadness when you leave? What if I’m so lonely without you that I forget how to get through a day? What if all inspiration leaves with you and I tell myself that ‘all’ I am is a mother, and without you I’ll tell myself that that isn’t enough and I’ll believe it.
So hormones, I’m overjoyed that our sweet romance continues. May we have trilogies, transfers to the big screen and a press tour to end all press tours (can it go on and on and on please…) My plan to breastfeed for as long as I can brings me so much joy but also has a weightier, darker logic. It’s not only because I really love it, because it makes me feel so close to my baba, because the guidelines tell me it’s a good thing, but also because when I stop, hormones, you stop too. Sweet Prolactin, dear wonderful Oxytocin, if part of our last few months together could somehow give me the vision to manufacture you in my garden so that when you leave me, I can then snort you off my husbands arse whenever I so choose, then I wish for that.
For The Motherload