Son,
It is not my fault that you still have not got over your cold. You really did not need to yell at me all night long. Perhaps this is karma, payback for the fact that you usually sleep so well at night. Can we return to those days, please, before my migraine takes over my life?
Thanks,
Mum xxx
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Monday, 2 June 2008
flourishing
You are growing.
Now 9 pounds, you feel weighty in my arms. I cannot remember thinking that before, even now nearly 4 weeks ago, when you first rested in my arms and I thought I do not know how to do this because I was high on a lack of sleep, physical exhaustion and drugs, shaking violently from the epidurals and spinal blocks, and because I had never willingly held a baby - let alone a newborn baby - before. The last time I had ever "held" a baby (if having something placed on my knees) counts, was maybe 10 years earlier.
Last week, you were able to sleep in your Moses basket. Now you sleep, but wake frequently because you are more violent with your arm movements, more prone to hitting your hands on its sides. You sleep in your cotbed now, snugly in your Grobag rather than tucked under a small fleece blanket.
Time passes slowly, one day at a time, and yet the weeks are flying by. Four weeks tomorrow. You are no longer newborn, you are baby. You are still so tiny, and yet, last night, even with your smaller disposable nappy, rather than your usual big-bum reusable, we had to cut the feet out of your newborn babygrow. Cutoffs? Not so trendy.
Today, as we are staying in, you are wearing your white softsoftsoft babygrow. The first thing you ever wore. We'd taken it to the hospital for you because it is so softsoftsoft. It was enormous, so comical. Today, it is still a little large, but you do not look so lost within it.
One day soon I will be packing your newborn items away - keeping the special ones, throwing out those which I have cutoff, sending others to charity shops. You will be wearing your 0-3 months clothing.
On the plus side, I will have an excuse to shop.
Now 9 pounds, you feel weighty in my arms. I cannot remember thinking that before, even now nearly 4 weeks ago, when you first rested in my arms and I thought I do not know how to do this because I was high on a lack of sleep, physical exhaustion and drugs, shaking violently from the epidurals and spinal blocks, and because I had never willingly held a baby - let alone a newborn baby - before. The last time I had ever "held" a baby (if having something placed on my knees) counts, was maybe 10 years earlier.
Last week, you were able to sleep in your Moses basket. Now you sleep, but wake frequently because you are more violent with your arm movements, more prone to hitting your hands on its sides. You sleep in your cotbed now, snugly in your Grobag rather than tucked under a small fleece blanket.
Time passes slowly, one day at a time, and yet the weeks are flying by. Four weeks tomorrow. You are no longer newborn, you are baby. You are still so tiny, and yet, last night, even with your smaller disposable nappy, rather than your usual big-bum reusable, we had to cut the feet out of your newborn babygrow. Cutoffs? Not so trendy.
Today, as we are staying in, you are wearing your white softsoftsoft babygrow. The first thing you ever wore. We'd taken it to the hospital for you because it is so softsoftsoft. It was enormous, so comical. Today, it is still a little large, but you do not look so lost within it.
One day soon I will be packing your newborn items away - keeping the special ones, throwing out those which I have cutoff, sending others to charity shops. You will be wearing your 0-3 months clothing.
On the plus side, I will have an excuse to shop.
Friday, 30 May 2008
on failures
I dislike vomit. My own, I can deal with - years of migraines, and then 20 weeks of 24-hour-sickness (because mornings just ain't enough) helped a lot with this. That of other people, no no. Even the animals are banned from throwing up around me. Case in point - the last time the white dog started retching, I carried her (quickly) to the bathroom, and pointed her at the toilet with my eyes firmly closed and imagining anything but what was going on in front of me. Cleaning it up? Nope, would rather flush it away.
I also dislike milk. I have got to the point, post pregnancy, where I was advised that it really would be an idea for me to up my calcium levels, that I can finally stomach it on cereal - but only if someone else pours it for me first. It's not just an excuse to get breakfast in bed - although the Boyfriend is good enough to accomodate this too since I've usually got the Turnip permanently attached to a nipple in the morning. I cannot stomach the idea of pouring milk myself. I am scared - literally - that it is off, curdled, or slightly sour-smelling. If it was up to me, during the times we HAVE to have milk in the fridge, we would have a fresh bottle every day Just In Case. I still try to convince myself that this really happens. I can't watch someone else drink milk either.
Naturally, I have been blessed with a baby who vomits a little milk after nearly every feed. And let's not discuss the projectile incident a few weeks ago. Deities, I thank you. No, really.
I also dislike milk. I have got to the point, post pregnancy, where I was advised that it really would be an idea for me to up my calcium levels, that I can finally stomach it on cereal - but only if someone else pours it for me first. It's not just an excuse to get breakfast in bed - although the Boyfriend is good enough to accomodate this too since I've usually got the Turnip permanently attached to a nipple in the morning. I cannot stomach the idea of pouring milk myself. I am scared - literally - that it is off, curdled, or slightly sour-smelling. If it was up to me, during the times we HAVE to have milk in the fridge, we would have a fresh bottle every day Just In Case. I still try to convince myself that this really happens. I can't watch someone else drink milk either.
Naturally, I have been blessed with a baby who vomits a little milk after nearly every feed. And let's not discuss the projectile incident a few weeks ago. Deities, I thank you. No, really.
an introduction
The Turnip (or not-Turnip for, now that we have seen him, we have to admit that the nickname isn't apt - though it is sticking) was born on 6th May 2008 after a 43 hour labour. Given that he was 9 days overdue when my labour began (and 11 when he finally made an appearence) it seemed that he was, quite frankly, taking the mick. After an emergency transfer between hospitals, 4 lots of epidural, a drip that sped up my waning contractions, a spinal block, lots of swearing and tears, both baby and I going into distress, a trip to theatre, a forceps delivery, a threat of caesarean and 3 sets of stitches, I couldn't have cared less though.
In spite of my fears about giving birth to Winston Churchill, in spite of my reaction to the epidural and spinal block and the whole lenth of the bloody saga, in spite of the fact that my son was battered and bruised from forceps which hadn't accounted for the fact he had turned back-to-back at the start of the labour - in spite of all this, I gave birth to the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Even if I couldn't focus on him at first.
He had been Turnip Head from the moment we found out I was pregnant - blame a recently blossoming and slightly belated addiction to 'Lost' - we had just started watching the first season around the time I wee'ed on a stick, and Charlie's name for Aaron stuck - even when, at the 20 week scan, we discovered the type of baby we were having, and we named him 'properly'. I still call him Turnip at times, and I swear he remembers it from me talking to him during pregnancy.
I've had blogs before, kept them updated sporadically, and I've enjoyed writing them. And this I am writing for me and for Turnip - a living memory box to the things I would otherwise forget, and a way of trying to work through the issues I had during and after his birth - a lack of support at the original hospital with breastfeeding, which left me feeling useless because I couldn't work out how to do something that should "come naturally", and left the Turnip jaundiced through lack of milk. Thanks to the second hospital (where I should have given birth, had everything not gone completely tits up) we managed to leave healthy and happy and feeding.
I plan to write about my own ups and downs, and the things I learn from this small, clean slate, whose favourite things are sleeping at night and screaming in the day, black and white photographs, beautiful lights and having 'The Cat in the Hat' read when he's meant to be napping. Already, Turnip, you seem to be in control.
In spite of my fears about giving birth to Winston Churchill, in spite of my reaction to the epidural and spinal block and the whole lenth of the bloody saga, in spite of the fact that my son was battered and bruised from forceps which hadn't accounted for the fact he had turned back-to-back at the start of the labour - in spite of all this, I gave birth to the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Even if I couldn't focus on him at first.
He had been Turnip Head from the moment we found out I was pregnant - blame a recently blossoming and slightly belated addiction to 'Lost' - we had just started watching the first season around the time I wee'ed on a stick, and Charlie's name for Aaron stuck - even when, at the 20 week scan, we discovered the type of baby we were having, and we named him 'properly'. I still call him Turnip at times, and I swear he remembers it from me talking to him during pregnancy.
I've had blogs before, kept them updated sporadically, and I've enjoyed writing them. And this I am writing for me and for Turnip - a living memory box to the things I would otherwise forget, and a way of trying to work through the issues I had during and after his birth - a lack of support at the original hospital with breastfeeding, which left me feeling useless because I couldn't work out how to do something that should "come naturally", and left the Turnip jaundiced through lack of milk. Thanks to the second hospital (where I should have given birth, had everything not gone completely tits up) we managed to leave healthy and happy and feeding.
I plan to write about my own ups and downs, and the things I learn from this small, clean slate, whose favourite things are sleeping at night and screaming in the day, black and white photographs, beautiful lights and having 'The Cat in the Hat' read when he's meant to be napping. Already, Turnip, you seem to be in control.
Saturday, 24 May 2008
welcome
With eyes that are possibly the biggest, bluest things that I have ever seen in my own life, you look upon light shining through the blinds, the lamp in our bedroom, two black and white prints and my own face with a concentration which is unbelievably endearing. These things distract you from feeding at times, causing you to pause, stretch your neck in a way that reminds me of a tiny baby bird, and stare, open-mouthed at what seems to be the most beautiful, fascinating thing you have ever seen which, given that you are 17 days old, is possibly true.
When you are hungry, you get so angry that it shows in your feeding. It hurts.
You smile. Sometimes I can convince myself that it is not just wind.
You are determined. When you lie on top of me, stomach to stomach, you will raise your head for longer than I thought a newborn possibly could. I can see in your face that you WANT to do this, more than anything. Even if it is only so that you can stare at the beautiful light coming through the blinds some more.
You are, at present, so helpless, and yet with more character than I ever would have given you credit for before I got to know you. You are not just "a baby", but a little individual, a personality.
When I see you, so tiny, I am filled with wonder that something so large can have come out of me. It defies logic.
Your skin is the softest thing I have ever touched. The peachy fluff on your shoulders makes me laugh, yet I cannot help but stroke it one more time.
I never thought I would be here - and whether by that I mean "mother" in general, or more specifically "maternal", I am not 100% sure. I remember doubting the power of the maternal bond which so many people told me about during pregnancy. I was sure I would love you, yes, but be IN love? 100% fascinated by your every move, every breath? So desperate to not forget any moment with you that I would create your own blog, so that I have opportunity to note down your development? This is the place I never saw myself. "All-encompassing" is maybe the best way to describe this maternal feeling.
And in this moment, I pledge to write and update whenever you give me the time.
Welcome to the world, little boy.
When you are hungry, you get so angry that it shows in your feeding. It hurts.
You smile. Sometimes I can convince myself that it is not just wind.
You are determined. When you lie on top of me, stomach to stomach, you will raise your head for longer than I thought a newborn possibly could. I can see in your face that you WANT to do this, more than anything. Even if it is only so that you can stare at the beautiful light coming through the blinds some more.
You are, at present, so helpless, and yet with more character than I ever would have given you credit for before I got to know you. You are not just "a baby", but a little individual, a personality.
When I see you, so tiny, I am filled with wonder that something so large can have come out of me. It defies logic.
Your skin is the softest thing I have ever touched. The peachy fluff on your shoulders makes me laugh, yet I cannot help but stroke it one more time.
I never thought I would be here - and whether by that I mean "mother" in general, or more specifically "maternal", I am not 100% sure. I remember doubting the power of the maternal bond which so many people told me about during pregnancy. I was sure I would love you, yes, but be IN love? 100% fascinated by your every move, every breath? So desperate to not forget any moment with you that I would create your own blog, so that I have opportunity to note down your development? This is the place I never saw myself. "All-encompassing" is maybe the best way to describe this maternal feeling.
And in this moment, I pledge to write and update whenever you give me the time.
Welcome to the world, little boy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)