Love at first sight…

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I had been depressed in the pregnancy. There were days, before I got my reception job at the children’s centre, that I would cry for hours.

I think it was the night before my due date that I cried to Tim because I wasn’t excited about the baby being born.

In retrospect, I think that was why the labour was so hard. If I had been excited, the beginnings of labour would have been exciting. But I found every minute of it awful.

Once he was born though, and I lay there legs akimbo, once the adrenaline had worn off and the shock had subsided, as they stitched me up (and yes I farted) after a good few puffs of gas and air (which by the way does nothing for the pain) to endure injections into my actual fairy (after all it had been through!), as I lay there then, the happy high of birth rose in me and never left. The depression slunk off and we have all been happy ever since.

But I didn’t love him at first. I was very happy. I stared at him all day, I stroked him, I fed him, I rocked him, I nearly cried when he, screaming, had his IV removed, but he could be passed to anyone and I didn’t mind, I could have left him for hours (I didn’t) and I don’t think I would have missed him. I was very happy but he felt like a stranger that I had to get to know.

He was a lovely little stranger. For the first 2 weeks he slept and woke only to feed. I spent every minute with him and watched him grow from tiny 6lb 10oz twiglet to a real chunky bubba who smiled and made gentle little sounds and screamed in rage when the boob didn’t arrive into his angry rosebud mouth fast enough.

Then one evening, when Tim was in Paris, I looked at him and cried because I loved him. It had taken about 6 weeks but the little stranger felt less of a little stranger and the love and fear had grown in equal measure, because they always seem to go hand in hand.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was really ok.

I still look her up on Instagram

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He comes back tomorrow for good. Au revoir, Paris!

I am so tired it’s hard to be excited. Nearly 8 weeks in, the tiredness has really set in now, like November drizzle. That hot-eyed, almost-headache, close to teary rage feeling. I had thought it was a little too easy! Now there is nothing worse than when he says he is tired.

I think I saw her the other day, going through the barrier at the station. She saw me, she was looking round at me. I don’t know why it bothers me but it does. I still look her up on Instagram. She looks like such a nice person. She was volunteering in Africa. I used disposable nappies in hospital and when the baby had a rash. She gets glowing posts about her. I bitch about people who do nice wholesome things like love each other.

Sometimes I look at old messages between me and him where he lied. Maybe I enjoy the drama of it.

I think I can’t quite get over that he never actually told her by choice. She was never dumped. He couldn’t choose between us but maybe at the end he did and he chose her.

The only reason that he eventually told her was because he was caught on the phone to me.

I said he would never be on his own with the baby. I said he had to go to therapy. I said he was an awful person.

But we ended up together, I met his family, he was amazing at the birth, and he’s back in Brighton for good tomorrow. And it is all going to be ok.

It’s just that she’s blonde and pretty and, worst of all, nice, and he never left her. She left him. That makes all the difference.

Difficulties I’ve discovered looking after a tiny baby…

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Pooing! (Not even his bowel movements, but mine.) For 2 reasons:

  1. The sudden desperate urge to poo always comes when he is either feeding or sleeping on me. And
  2. Piles! For the second time in the 6 weeks since he was born, my arsehole is ruined and it had nothing to do with anything sexual (well actually technically yes it did).

The above kind of summarizes the main difficulties of looking after a tiny baby: it’s difficult to do anything! Such as eat, shower, poo, leave the house (especially when it is this swelteringly hot).

I hope we make it through this heatwave.

I hope my bum eventually recovers.

First few weeks into motherhood…

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5 weeks and 4 days into motherhood and it’s super chilled. From what I can work out so far, it seems to be

lots of sitting with a baby guzzling your tit as if starved even if was fed 30 minutes ago,

lots of jiggling around, rocking, swaying,

talking in a stupid voice, mainly to bestow poo congratulations (what a humongous Korma-like poo that just squirted into my hand, well done!),

and quickly dashing about when he is either asleep or with a family member

to scrub poo out of nappies, hang up the washing, and other important jobs

such as eating, showering and going to the loo.

Monday mornings are to watch Sunday night’s episode of The Handmaid’s Tale.

Friday mornings are to watch Thursday’s episode of Ambulance or to go to the Healthy Child Clinic at the Children’s Centre to get him weighed and then as soon as possible to watch Thursday’s episode of Ambulance and probably to cry because it’s such an emotional programme that restores any lost faith in humanity and is amazing and I love it.

Those are the big events of the week. I think that that sums up the first few weeks of motherhood. One day it took 4 hours to go to the park.

Pregnancy has prepared you for the slow pace of life. When pregnant I could sit staring into space doing nothing for hours and couldn’t focus on anything if I did try to be productive (isn’t growing a baby enough productivity!). Once I’d finished working my biggest jobs were household chores, and it’s exactly the same now except everything takes a bit longer because you have to keep stopping to pop the baby on your boob and to rock him to sleep or to stare at him for ages when he’s being awake and sweet and not needing anything.

I’m still struggling with the concept of playing God, bequeathing life.

But I will probably forever live life on the high of giving birth. Even though from the outside life appears absolutely deathly boring, I feel excited every day.