Bittersweetness

Bittersweetness is an emotion that always gets me when I come across it. The scene in a Buffy episode where Buffy shares a last dance with Angel at her prom (to the aching 'Wild Horses' by The Sundays, of all songs), even though they have already broken up, makes me bawl like a baby every time. And bittersweetness is my own little holy grail in my writing - something I've always wanted, but I think never quite managed, to capture. In life itself, it's an emotion that's not that common.

Last night I was all weepy and fragile. Certainly it was partly about-to-have-a-baby nerves, but yesterday was also special for a reason I'm glad I realised early in the day. Yesterday was the last day of term for Jerry - as of today he's on holiday for two weeks. Since I'm due on Tuesday it can be assumed that I will have our baby at some point in those two weeks. That means that yesterday was my last day alone with Poldy.

Of course, I know that I will spend days alone with him in the future, but it will never be the same again. I will be different, he will be different, our lives will be different. This, that we have now - we will never get it back. I'm a big believer that change in life - apart from being inevitable - is a Good, and don't get me wrong: having another child is a Wonderful. I'm sure Poldy and Jerry and I will all change for the better. But change is also a loss, or at least an ending. The two years, ten months and three days that Poldy has been in my life have been some of the hardest I've lived, but they have certainly been the most precious and the most full of love. The boundaries of my self have expanded, as I'm sure they will again when the Little One arrives. And the minute those labour pains start, that particular chapter will be at a close.

Needless to say, Poldy himself is oblivious to the more complex layers of meaning in the events to come. He told me the other day he was 'very excited on the baby coming'. Adding an extra kick to the bittersweetness, he's unlikely to even remember any of these years when it was just us. But I marked the day with a special just-him-and-me trip to the Museum (his request), where I let him navigate (he 'read' the visitor map for us and everything) and he let me hold his hand sometimes. Then last night when I went in to kiss him goodnight as he was sleeping, I felt like I was never going to see him again - not that version of him, anyway - and I cried. I don't think it's wrong to allow myself to be both happy and sad at the same time. And there it was, a moment harder and more beautiful than art could ever achieve.