So step away if other people’s babies bore you or gross you out. I have to admit to finding other people’s babies a bit oily-smelling and flaky-skinned and veiny with worryingly skinny limbs and generally not that interesting.
Mine, however, tend to be dreamy. Just look at my delicious 9.7lb Otis Willoughby, whose head smells of biscuits and whose thighs are reassuringly chunky with a good amount of downy hair and heartiness. Thank goodness for my efficient placenta.
The details: the labour was five hours long, and it hurt more than I remembered that it would. It was as typically undignified as all labours, with vomits and unladylike deep squatting and ugly grunting towards the end. That whole pushing bit is a little too close to dying, is it not? Then, I must confess, I was initially a little bit sad that Otis was not a Tabitha, faced as I was with yet another hefty purple-skinned black-haired lusty boy, but then that lovely little face and tiny little murmurs and good smells changed my mind fairly quickly. (PHEW). Having a newborn is simply lovely, and precious, and I would really really like to have one more baby to even out the numbers. Just sayin’.
The breastfeeding is all normal, in that my poor boobs have been torn and scabbed, torn and scabbed and now only one is toe-curlingly sore. The other is just eye-wateringly painful. Ha! And they insist breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt! I say, tell the truth. It hurts, then your poor nipples get fierce and then weeks later it is fine. You stop weeping at each slightly-incorrect latch-on, and you only whisper swearwords under your breath, and you hope that the various lumps you can feel are not some brewing mastitis-malarkey. And you learn to shield your poor nips from the shower spray, and you get good at wrapping yourself up in a towel post-shower in elaborate origami folds so as to ensure no piece of rough towelling gets close to your huge, throbbing formerly-unremarkable bosoms. And because it is your fifth child, no one bothers to look up from their obsessive pimp-my-landrover youtube tutorials while you whimper over in the Breast-Feeding Corner Of Pain. (That’s a whole other blog-post…Ahem.)
The nighttime wakings are tiring but kind of lovely, because you get your little squirmy baby to yourself, and you can play one-handed Words With Friends in real time with your NZ-based mother. And you can catch up on America’s Cup-related news before your husband wakes up and be the first to tell him the worsening news. (OH! OH! That whole sorry saga kills me, just KILLS ME!).
Speaking of husbands, here I pause for some vital advice to all Husbands Of The World:
Please refrain from yawning loudly all day and telling your barely conscious wife that you fancy a sneaky nap after lunch. KEEP THAT TO YOURSELF. Keep that little insidious nugget in your head as a harmless fantasy, and do not act upon it, even if you are convinced that you are coming down with a cold. You will make your sleep-deprived wife with the bleeding boobs and disposable knickers REALLY REALLY MAD. If anyone can have a sneaky nap, IT’S HER!
I hope I have made myself crystal clear.
In Other Non-Baby News:
1. I have finished the first part of Breaking Bad Series Five. I was a bit surprised by Walt’s humanity bypass. And he also became MacGyver. Where can he go from here? (All you with Netflix, don’t tell me.)
2. I am now attempting to love Homeland. Damien Lewis talks without opening his mouth, which is quite awesome, but also distracting. And his wife had an ill-advised mullet until she cut the ‘party bits’ off at the back. Deeply, deeply distracting also.
3. Casper has been in trouble at school three times in the first three weeks of the new school year, culminating in yesterday’s Red Card of Shame. According to my other (perhaps over-dramatic and not very sympathetic) boys, that is one step away from SUSPENSION. What a way to start the new year off, and with a new teacher, too. Sigh.
4. We have been showered with gifts and meals and cake since Otis arrived, and I haven’t had to cook or think about domestic boringness. Thanks for that, kind friends. Its like a birthday in my flat every day, with gifts and visitors and cards and flowers. As it is my actual birthday next week, and I will be turning an ancient and forgettable 36, I am making the most of the gifting and general celebratory atmosphere while I can. Take it where you can get it and all that. I have been mentioning how much I need some diamond studs to replace the one I lost while running around the park, and have been priming the kids to tell their dad how much I need and want them, and putting the auction house website on all our mobile devices, but I fear it is not going to happen. I shall keep you posted.
5. My stomach is doughy, but not as doughy as the last four times, and I am putting that down to that running I did, sooooo long ago. I have a plan to start running again, but not until I can at least walk to Boots without feeling like my nerves have been rubbed raw. I reckon another few weeks off of everything is in order? Including cooking and basic household chores?
Thanks for indulging me with my baby-talk. It’s going to be like this for awhile, at least until the hormones wear off. I will sign off with this little gem: Magic has been neutered, and he has to wear this Edwardian frill for another few days. He just rolls with it, ya know?