My name is Janelle. I’m 35 years old. I’m a writer and a teacher, among other things. Most importantly, though, I am Max and Alice's mummy, and being able to say that out loud makes my heart sing.
This blog was born in November 2011 when my first-born baby was born, prematurely, at only 23 weeks gestation. My darling son, who I’d nurtured inside me, would, however, not be mine to keep. He died in the arms of his mummy and daddy just a few hours later, having known only love, adoration and affection in his short, but significant life. I wrote, and I wrote, and I wrote as I tried to find a way to navigate through our darkest night - a night in which it felt like we would never see the dawn.
Here, I recorded, without censure, all of my raw, bloody, scabby feelings. It was my way of airing my wounds so that one day they might heal. For a long time it was like I was in an empty, echoing room, howling out into the still of the night. Many of the feelings I expressed weren't pretty. They were far from eloquent. Some of them offended or startled people I invited to read here and some friends fell away. But over time many new friends came to fill those empty spaces, those from across the world who had also known this unimaginable pain. I found fellow soldiers who words acted as a crutch - enabling me to learn to walk in the world again, supporting each and every stumbling step forward, into a world where I had to learn to live without my son.
When we decided to try again for another baby in 2012, this space became one where I nervously awaited the fate I was sure would befall me again. I withdrew from the world during my subsequent pregnancy, preferring to calculate my odds away from the well-meaning masses who were quick to assure me that lightning would not strike twice. What did they know? What did anyone know, anymore?
I endured a complicated pregnancy, where premature labour threatened to bring this baby, too, before she was ready. Because of outstanding specialist care and testing, however, I managed to stay pregnant until 35 weeks gestation, when little baby Alice was born, safe and healthy. A miracle, in every sense of the word, was she.
Now, I write about life with (without) both of my children. I document the privileged experience of getting to know my incredible daughter at the same time as I continue to long for her big brother, who, despite his physical absence, is ever-present in our lives. I consider this a place of remembrance and hope. While I will be shepherded along with Alice's adventures, as she grows, into the future, I must learn how to embrace this while also honouring the past, where Max lived. This life is a work-in-progress - as beautiful as it has been bitter.
Welcome to our home.
