Thursday, April 15
a brief history of timeTomorrow Rebecca will be one month old. Or today, or yesterday, or last Friday, depending on when I can get around to writing and posting this. Fulltime parenthood don't leave much time for blogging, but I will do my humble best. You're going to get used to reading lots of stuff about babies though. Don't worry, I'll keep it tasteful - there will be no detailed descriptions of the contents of her nappies (my brother Rob, father to two-year-old Joseph, once referred to this sort obsessive nappy-chronicling as 'the taxonomy of shit').
As of today (or yesterday, or last week) she weighs a magnificent 10 pounds, 1 ounce, or 4.58 kg. So she is getting fed enough, in spite of what she may claim in later life - the Health Visitor says so. I like the Health Visitor. Her name's Carrie and she's sensible and kind and doesn't talk bollocks and always shows up when she says she will and tells me not to do any housework and that Rebecca will not suffer irreversible damage if I leave her to screech in her cot for five minutes to go and make myself a sanity-restoring cup of tea. As well as weighing Rebecca she also gave me a questionnaire (entirely routine) to fill in to determine whether I have PND or am just the normal amount of sleep-deprived new parent psychotic. Apparently I scored seven (don't know out of how much and didn't like to ask) so as such am the latter. Questionnaire was in the statement followed by 'underline the option that best reflects your level of agreement' format, viz: 'I often fantasise about taking my baby to a pet shop and trying to trade him/her for something less high-maintenance, like, say, a tortoise.' a) Never! What kind of monster would suggest such a thing? b) Only occasionally in the wee small hours of the night when my breasts have been sucked inside-out and my eardrums have started to bleed c) Do you think they'd let me have dormouse instead of a tortoise? Dormice are quieter.
Rebecca, referred to variously, depending on the lateness of the hour, as the Bug, the Beast, the Wee Vampire and What Do You Mean She Seems Hungry I Only Just Fed Her, Goddammit, continues to thrive thanks to her monomaniacal fixation on her mothers somwhat macerated mammary glands. She lets you know she is hungry by snorting, shaking her head from side to side like a terrier worrying a small rodent, and by pawing at and frequently trying to chew through your clothing. Once the magic mammary is presented she launches herself at it with great gusto, like a crocodile engulfing a piglet, and sucks until her eyes pop. She is starting to get used to baths but still hates being undressed or having her nappy changed, and by way of resistance is currently perfecting a fiendish and impressive projectile defaecation technique (hey, I only said I wouldn't describe product; I made no promises about manner of production). In the right mood, she displays an occasional interest in the world beyond the boobie, and stares in great puzzlement at light sources, faces and, for some reason, the dark red wall in the kitchen. And this morning I think she smiled at me. Although it may have been wind. Regardless, it made me do that heart-melty thing...
Ahem. In other news, we now have a new PC and it's a great relief to be back online, especially since I'm still a bit housebound what with the Caesarean and all (two weeks until I can drive again!) It also allows me finally to thank all those people who've phoned, visited, sent emails, cards, baby clothes, bootees, teddies, bunnies, pukekos, kiwis, sheep and sundry other stuffed animals, good wishes and sage advice. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Rebecca is a very lucky baby indeed. I'm afraid that a lot of my address book went pop along with the rest of our data, so if anyone feels like getting in touch to remind me of their email address I'd be v grateful, and you may even get a reply. Address, as ever, is heather[at]tallpoppy.org.
She's snorting again. More soon...
