March 15: Just another Manic Monday...

Yet anther appointment to measure the fluid around Bump and to check he’s getting all the food and blood he needs. It seems the 'levels' are fine. No drought. No great flood. Which means probably all is well and that I'm just having a small baby for some other reason.
I see my consultant, who always seems relaxed and cheerful even when dishing out news about borderline tumours and worryingly small babies. This time she says: 'There is no need to be concerned. The baby is small. But we humans draw up these medical charts to tell us how a baby should be at a certain time and age. But God sometimes know better and decides that it won’t quite fit what we want.’
Hmm, I think. Isn’t that what people say when bad things happen? That God is on board? That God knows best? Oh, you’ve lost you only son in car crash. Oh, your mother’s been murdered by a raving schizophrenic let out on a weekend jolly. Is God really on board then? And is he really on board with this baby? After all the grief Bump’s caused, I hope so. I really do. I’m not sure I’m enough. If you’re listening God, there’s a seat for you down this end of the pitch, the whistle’s blown and they're off, come and cheer on my team and come quick; we need your help.

***

A cursory call from father-to-be to check that the appointment went ok. I wait for him to tell me whether he is coming to the next scan – which he has been invited to - but he rushes to get off the phone.
Leave it, I think. Then, two minutes later, ‘bugger it, I want to know’. I text him. Are you coming to the next scan? Have you thought about whether you are having contact with this child?
Seems the ‘I will definitely have contact’ line from last week has gone up in a puff of smoke (have I mentioned that I’m naive? I think I have...???).
Now, the line is: ‘I think about nothing else than whether to have contact or not and I am still not sure.
'We need to talk some more, much more openly and honestly.'
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Cruel, cruel, spineless coward. I hate him. I hate him from me. I hate him from Bump. I hate him from my family. I hate him from all decent people who know what’s right and make sure they put their children first despite all the obstacles. What is it that I am doing? Trying to include him, trying to incorporate him, trying to create some bond between him and Bump. Here, I say, come over, be involved. If we can’t be a happy couple, we can be happy parents, you can see Bump whenever you want, he can get to know you, he can get to know his heritage, he will love you and turn to you for guidance when his mother is making him tidy his bedroom and turn his music down and generally driving him mad. I will do what I can to make it work – provided you keep us both away from the cultural backlash.
I am a fool ten times over. I think: 'How can he not want to see this child or be committed to involvement in this child's life? How is he not 100 per cent biting-my-arm off to come to the scans?' Now, after all this time, largely down to my counsellor's (the Big C's) doing, he has access and encouragement on a plate - but he doesn’t want it. His family still come first, and they don’t want this. If FTB keeps becoming more involved, their dirty little secret has more of a chance of getting out. I weep for myself for being a fool. I weep for Bump. I weep, I weep, I weep.