An old friend, one who I’d lost touch with and then re-encountered through the magic of F*c*Book, has just had a very beautiful, very perfect, baby girl. Of course, he’s posting darling photos of the precious little creature, and, actually, so he should. The birth of this child is a wonderful thing and a cause for spontaneous outbreaks of rainbows and unicorns, and she is absolutely gorgeous.
It’s just, I remember him at University insisting he’d never have bloody kids, quoting Cyril Connolly: ‘there is no greater enemy of promise than the perambulator in the hall!’ before getting another round in. No, he never did fulfill his promise. Hell, neither did I. But he has got a kid now. I’ve got no excuse.
And I look at his darling baby daughter, and feel weepy with envy and sorrow. Poor baby. And her so innocent and fresh.
I miss Pikaia very much, at times like this. I don’t really miss the others in the same way. Partly because I never got as attached, or got as much time to get attached. And partly because Pikaia I loved with such unspoilt fervour. I knew, intellectually, Bad Sad Things happened, but they hadn’t happened to us. And I was pregnant, at last, and I was in love with the very thought of my teeny tiny little embryo, growing a teeny tiny proto-spine.
Of course, she wasn’t. She had stopped developing long before the spine stage, leaving my fool body to carry on carrying her regardless.
But the others, well, I was wary, I was battle-scarred, and everything went tits-up so fast each time. I regret losing them, I wish, oh, how I wish one of them had stayed, I grieve over them, but I don’t really miss them.
Whereas Pikaia’s little ghost, two years old now, follows me about, to work and back, and when we pass other parents with kidlets that age, her cold little hand slips into mine.