Process Failure

You’re having a baby.

Selfishly, I placed myself at the centre of your joy. Integral and trusted. Part of the chosen few; the created family, not by blood, but by your own convicted choice. Flaws of mine, my fractured, disorganised, chaotic thoughts and moods accepted, because they don’t wholly define me. The good bits, the squidgy, sticky, raw, emotive, charismatic, ride-or-die, till death do us part, parts. The bits you wanted. Our friendship vows unspoken, but non-verbally confirmed by our behaviour towards one another, large and small. Complementing our tumultuous friendship, standing any test because friends we are not. But brothers. Persecutions we face, we faced together from differing worlds of privilege, undoing our miseducation. We saw it with our eyes, yet never let it drive a wedge. Nurturing and compassionate. One day for another human life; not my own or yours. But of yours. One that would sap up my influence. Rounded in diversity, provided for with wealth and richness of thought, intentions and actions over materialism. Over superficial security. An environment whole, giving and safe. Rejoicing in the creation of new life; anticipating the call for Uncle Az. From an angelic little bundle of curiosity, navigating our complex, messy, pessimistic, wonderful, exciting contradiction of experiences; the place we call home. The place we call earth, the place we destroy with our habits and think our positive intentions are enough to save it.

You’re having a baby.

Selfishly, I think of how I’m missing out. I’ve never wanted children. Not a paternal bone or instinct flows through these veins. But I’m missing us. The water has well and truly passed under our bridge. The bed is dry and cracked like the hardened, yellowing heels of a bare foot runner. Once upon a time, in that chosen circle, I would be one of the first to know. But now, I’m demoted to social media posts and groups chats. Grateful still I get to witness these miracles from afar. But the recognition, that this particular day would be closer to my heart in proximity, is further away than I dreamed of it being, breaks my heart. I predicted this. Many backyard shisha filled moons and Spanish sunsets ago, I knew I would never see this. I write, not for your attention. I write to stare hard in the face of what I thought I had processed, kneaded, baked and served, but realise I was too afraid to complete. I didn’t want it to be over, but the ingredients turned sour at their own pace, and now too many things need replacing. The formula won’t be the same. It won’t taste the same.

You’re having a baby.

You’re going to do absolutely brilliantly.