SPILT MILK // ISSUE 0003

Due tomorrow.

In the past 24 hours, baby has dropped low, and there’s something definitive about knowing we will have him in our arms soon. We’ve been quietly resting and pottering in our zwieschen (the German word for “in-between”, adapted by midwife Jana Studelska for the time spent waiting between worlds prior to a birth). My nesting instinct is at an all-time high: furniture has been dragged, cupboards and drawers militantly organised, fridge scrubbed (it felt critical to me that all condiment labels face outward), linens washed… Tyler cooks us beautiful meals each night that I devour in half the time he does, and I always ask for seconds despite his usual protests that certain elements weren’t his best and could do with more salt. My insatiable desire for meat and potatoes hasn’t let up since the beginning of pregnancy, and Connoisseur ice-cream after dinner has become something of a ritual.

As I reflect on my journey into parenthood with Tyler, I confess myself a little bored of the Instagram rhetoric going around lately that shames men for not anticipating or knowing the needs of their pregnant partner, stereotyping the “dumb dad” for the sake of a click-bait reel. The new fathers I’ve worked with as a doula have on the whole been nothing short of inspiring, as they show up fully to prenatals with carefully prepared questions, all courteously offering me drinks and their most comfortable chairs, listening intently to what can quite frankly be pretty intense conversations about the birthing process. I’ve seen those dads refuse to leave their partner’s side, and weep as their babies are born. I don’t think we give them enough credit for their irreplaceable role, and, usually, their desire to fulfil it. Tyler has been nothing short of the most loving partner, which is not unprecedented in our relationship by any means but certainly feels significant at such a time of vulnerability. Without complaint and at significant financial and logistical cost, he arranged for us to move back to Sydney to support my preferences, and has remained engaged and proactive in the planning of our upcoming home birth (which he has always acknowledged was my right to choose). Every day, he cares for us gently - ensuring I’m fed, watered, and protected as my heart and body stretch to accomodate the newest member of our family. I couldn’t be more grateful.

As I’ve shared in previous posts, this pregnancy has been a true joy since the beginning, and our third trimester has been the icing on a very decadent cake. There have been so many highlights that I intend to write about in the coming months; co-training 8 new doulas in Sydney, a divine baby shower in Parsley Bay, three girlfriends welcoming their babies close to my own, as well as not one but two prenatal photoshoots to celebrate this fleeting time. There’s no doubt though, that the award for the best part of this pregnancy goes to our babymoon in Cabo San Lucas.

Fortuitously, Tyler’s work retreat fell towards the middle of our third trimester. As Boromir once famously said: “One does not simply fly all the way to Mexico at 32 weeks’ pregnant to not stay an extra 4 nights, with the sole ambition of eating tacos and sleeping by the pool.” The adults-only vibe of a literal oasis in the Mexican desert couldn’t have been more welcome, and for once on a holiday, we didn’t leave the resort. On reflection, the most valuable luxury our stay afforded us lay beyond the culinary and architectural excellence (not that we were complaining), with the opportunity to finally slow down and appreciate this part of our story, falling in love all over again before a glowing Baja sunset.

To my greatest love: thank you for everything you do. Whenever our son chooses to join us, I’m ready.

BABYMOON // 35MM KODAK PORTRA