Sunday, October 19
A New Mum Blogs On
What I am about to publish is probably of no interest to anyone but myself and a handful of grandparents – the daily trials, tribulations and nappy contents of our first born, currently aged 4 and a half weeks. But to me it’s absolutely fascinating. The whole transition to motherhood thing has utterly blissed me out and boggled my mind; I can’t wait to put it all into words. (And anyway two of my family members have found things to blog about so why shouldn’t I?)
The birth: Life will never be the same again, and neither will parts of my body… Feel like a battle weary but triumphant warrior with babe as the spoils of victory. Lots of blood to prove how momentous it all was. I remember contemplating my toes in hospital; bloodstains juxtapositioned with gold nail varnish. Some aspects of the birth were downright miraculous and I’m very grateful to God. Please excuse me if you’re squeamish about references to God – but I am too aware of his incredible kindness to edit him out of this blog. No shepherds, mangers or angels but lots of direct answers to prayer. Babe is a beautiful little girl – no, really, she is beautiful. She has not ever even once looked like Winston Churchill. She has her father’s ginger hair. The joke is that that’s why he’s got so little himself.
Babyfather (to whom I am also married) feels as if he has also given birth since I spent my entire time in labour gripping whatever part of his body was nearest.
First night at home is sheer hell, involving a bleeding nipple, a screaming newborn and no sleep whatsoever. Lots of tearful phonecalls all night to anyone who would listen produced a community midwife at 9am. Somehow everything was OK again by the time she left, I went to sleep, woke up and my milk had ‘come in’. I proudly pointed out my new improved and rock solid boobs to babyfather who was duly impressed. It’s true about white cabbage – a couple of leaves stuffed in your bra are just the business when your boobs seem to be on fire. I adorned the leaves tastefully on my chest for babyfather and we agreed that I could have posed as the centrefold of Vegetable Weekly.
The first week is like Christmas every day, what with all the family, cards and presents. Everyone has bought babe the pink clothes I swore she was never going to wear. But there’s also flowers, chocolates and cards, cards, cards, some from people I’ve never even met, and it feels as if the whole world is as excited as we are. Every friend who turns up is forced to be photographed holding babe. She is tiny and just wants to sleep on anyone who will hold her, curled up into a little ball on your chest.
Everytime I get a minute to talk to God – usually when I’m supposed to be napping – I just cry and cry my thanks.
What I am about to publish is probably of no interest to anyone but myself and a handful of grandparents – the daily trials, tribulations and nappy contents of our first born, currently aged 4 and a half weeks. But to me it’s absolutely fascinating. The whole transition to motherhood thing has utterly blissed me out and boggled my mind; I can’t wait to put it all into words. (And anyway two of my family members have found things to blog about so why shouldn’t I?)
The birth: Life will never be the same again, and neither will parts of my body… Feel like a battle weary but triumphant warrior with babe as the spoils of victory. Lots of blood to prove how momentous it all was. I remember contemplating my toes in hospital; bloodstains juxtapositioned with gold nail varnish. Some aspects of the birth were downright miraculous and I’m very grateful to God. Please excuse me if you’re squeamish about references to God – but I am too aware of his incredible kindness to edit him out of this blog. No shepherds, mangers or angels but lots of direct answers to prayer. Babe is a beautiful little girl – no, really, she is beautiful. She has not ever even once looked like Winston Churchill. She has her father’s ginger hair. The joke is that that’s why he’s got so little himself.
Babyfather (to whom I am also married) feels as if he has also given birth since I spent my entire time in labour gripping whatever part of his body was nearest.
First night at home is sheer hell, involving a bleeding nipple, a screaming newborn and no sleep whatsoever. Lots of tearful phonecalls all night to anyone who would listen produced a community midwife at 9am. Somehow everything was OK again by the time she left, I went to sleep, woke up and my milk had ‘come in’. I proudly pointed out my new improved and rock solid boobs to babyfather who was duly impressed. It’s true about white cabbage – a couple of leaves stuffed in your bra are just the business when your boobs seem to be on fire. I adorned the leaves tastefully on my chest for babyfather and we agreed that I could have posed as the centrefold of Vegetable Weekly.
The first week is like Christmas every day, what with all the family, cards and presents. Everyone has bought babe the pink clothes I swore she was never going to wear. But there’s also flowers, chocolates and cards, cards, cards, some from people I’ve never even met, and it feels as if the whole world is as excited as we are. Every friend who turns up is forced to be photographed holding babe. She is tiny and just wants to sleep on anyone who will hold her, curled up into a little ball on your chest.
Everytime I get a minute to talk to God – usually when I’m supposed to be napping – I just cry and cry my thanks.
