I wear my hearts on my sleeve

My kids have never really had nappy rash. Random fact to start a post with I know, but whether it has been our cloth nappy use, luck or a bit of both, I haven't ever really had to use much nappy rash cream in my parenting journey so far. Yet, I know exactly what it smells like, and if there is one smell that sucks me right back to the time of intense pain and morning just after she died, that's it: nappy rash cream. Let me explain.

About a month or so after we lost her, which also happened to be the week of my birthday, a big wig doctor at Simon's work gave us the keys to his beach side holiday house and told us to go and use it for as long as we wanted or needed. I knew I didn't want to be doing anything with anyone on my birthday so we figured we may as well make the most of it and hit the road. All I wanted to be doing, of course, was snuggling up on the couch with my brand new baby, doing whatever it was that brand new babies and brand new mummies did, but that was the one and only thing I couldn't do, so the beach house with Simon it was.

It wasn't warm, it wasn't cold but the air was certainly changing. Spring was upon us. New life, happy families, anticipation and hope all around us. Yet we were in the deepest, darkest and most dingy hole you could ever imagine and thought we'd never find our way out.

One idea we began throwing around a few days after her death was to get tattoos. Seemed like a good idea, I mean, why the hell not? She was dead but we sure as hell knew she'd never be forgotten. So we wanted her name forever etched on our skin. We decided our little beach getaway would be the best time to do it. Simon opted to get her name on his shoulder, and I got her name down on my hip, near where she lived and died, trying to make sure it was on a patch of skin that might not stretch out of shape if ever another baby wanted to take up residence in there. We walked in off the street to the tattoo parlour, directly opposite the crisp blue water of Melbourne's Port Phillip Bay. We flipped through a few pages of suggested fonts and settled on what we both wanted then got ready for it all to begin. I laid down on a blue vinyl bench and lowered my skirt, tummy still loose and flabby from the fruitless pregnancy that had only just ended. I remember laughing as the tiny needle pierced my skin. It didn't seem to hurt, rather it tickled. The guy doing it thought this was most amusing and said it was not at all the sort of reaction people ordinarily have. But this was no ordinary situation. He couldn't understand why I didn't find it painful, but little did he know I'd already done the most painful thing anyone could do just a month earlier, and that was continuing to carry the pain as I somehow, in spite of everything, carried on living without her.

He asked a few questions about who or what "Hope" was and meant to us, but mostly kept to himself and got the work done. We certainly weren't the first people to ever walk in to a tattoo parlour to get a dead person's name tattooed on our bodies and we wouldn't be the last. He finished up, cleaned the ink off his needle and gave us instructions on how to care for our brand new works of art, splashed across our skin.

"Nappy rash cream, three times for about a week".  Oh. The irony. Here we were, brand new parents with nary a brand new baby in sight, let alone a dirty bum to wipe, and we had to walk in to the chemist and buy a tube of god damn nappy rash cream. To care for our brand new dead baby tattoos. We laughed, because that's all that was left to do. One of those real black humour moments that so often comes when one of your children cease to exist.

With the help of the nappy rash cream, the tattoos healed up just fine. And a year or so later, Simon had his added to as a bit of a Father's Day present, again using the nappy rash cream to keep the tatt looking it's best. Ever since, I've been thinking about adding to mine or getting another one, but I wasn't really sure what or where so I just let it go.

But this year, as part of a Mother's Day treat for me, I decided to get inked. Again. I wanted something small and simple but also something that represented all three of my children, not just Hope, as they all take up equal space in my heart and thoughts. I'm normally pretty impulsive and if I see something I like I buy it (within reason) but I just couldn't think of I wanted or where. Their names, their birthdays, symbols etc etc - nothing felt right. I think I got to the point where you could officially say, I was over thinking it (and over Googling ideas). So yesterday afternoon, I waltzed in to the local tattoo parlour and asked for three small hearts on my right wrist, one pink, one blue and the other one pink as well. Don't think you need to be Einstein to figure out why. It only took 10 minutes or so, which meant I was home before the kids had even realised i was gone. Again, it tickled more than I'd say it hurt, but this time I didn't laugh. Instead I just took a rare moment to breathe, be alone and gather my thoughts and think about how far I've come, since that dreadful time of early spring in 2008. As the young tattooist etched the three hearts on my wrist, I stopped to think specifically about the three children they represent and what each one of them has brought to my life and taught me about the world.

Hope, who made me a mother and cracked my heart wide open.

Angus, who gave me someone to physically mother and reason to go on.

And Juliet, who added a prized double layer to the rainbow in my life as well as lots of sunshine.

Just like in that Mornington Peninsula tattoo parlour almost four years ago, when the woman finished yesterday she told me to use nappy rash cream, three times a day for the next week. And when I got home yesterday and took the dressing off to apply it for the first time, the smell took me right back. To a time I'd rather forget, but a time I know I'll always remember, no matter how hard I try and block it out.

Mother's Day has always been a bitch of a day since Hope left. 2009 was brutal. I had Angus newly in my belly that year at least, but it was an ugly, ugly day and not one I look back fondly on. 2010 there was joy and love with the seven month old baby boy in my arms, but I still missed my girl. And last year was mostly good having Angus toddling around and Juliet growing safely within, but of course I still missed my girl.

This year, I hope, promises to be the best one yet. Life is good. I am happy and I've been so damn lucky. But I'm forever incomplete and there is no way to reconcile that. One of the only ways I can parent Hope these days is to come here, especially on or around the big days like this and share my words, share my love for her and if there's one thing I've been since this all began, it's honest. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I try my best to tell it like it is.

And now, forever more, I wear three hearts on my sleeve. One for each of the greatest loves in my life.

Hope.

Angus.

Juliet.

Happy Mother's Day, friends.