My pregnancy manual advises that I should feel little flutterings in my tummy by now. Disappointingly, I cannot feel anything. Zip, nada, nowt. I hope Peanut is ok in there. Has he inherited my sleep gene and is simply hibernating? Perhaps he’s in there all tucked up in a duvet pleading for just another five minutes before he has to get up and flutter.
Then one day, I was vegging out on the sofa watching a fly on the wall documentary on adoption. It followed five adults all-searching for their mothers. It was very moving. It was fascinating that even at the age of fifty-five, an adopted London taxi driver was still haunted by the fact he didn’t know his mother. One lady made contact successfully with her mum and established a warm relationship with her newly found half brothers and sisters. One young man found his mum and she refused to see him. She told him through a window that she had rejected him once and she was doing it again. She had her own life and she couldn’t cope with him upsetting everyone and everything at this stage of her life. I watched the programme wincing; smiling with tears stinging my eyes.
It dawned on me that even if I abandoned Peanut on day one, the chances were he would look for me. Even if I were the worst mum on the planet, we would always have a very special relationship. This scares and reassures me and makes me more than a little tearful.
Just at that moment, I felt Peanut move. It’s like a little fish swishing up and down. I rub my belly and grin like a cartoon character. It’s the most incredible sensation and I can’t stop smiling.
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