It’s not because they *are* slower. It’s because you don’t have time sit on the carpet serenely listening to Clanad (?!) while you coax and encourage your baby, righting their position around the cushions while they learn it sit for themselves. No.
You’re too busy fishing the pea out of his big brother’s nose, cooking 3 different suppers for 4 different people and stressing about your tax return. Continue Reading
I won’t break him: I was pretty convinced I’d be rushing to A+E at some point having accidentally dropped eldest on his head, twisted his arm trying to wrangle him into one of those damn baby vests, or broken his little legs by crashing the car seat into a wall as I tried to navigate through a tight space. Luckily none of those things happened and with number two I realise his risk of sustaining any of these injuries is small. He is, however, more likely to have his eyeballs poked out, his cot tipped over and his peace significantly broken by his older brother. Rough with the smooth, my friend, rough with the smooth.
I’m already penning mine. It’s going to be set in the Amazon with only birdsong for pain relief.
I’ll write how we’re back at home eating quinoa seeds and spinach mere hours after he arrives, my toddler having sprouted angel wings and flown around cleaning the house, preparing dinners, picking up spills.
I will be totally unscathed. The Virgin Mary didn’t need stitches did she? I mean, I don’t remember that in the Bible. Continue Reading
I mean, aside from having 9 months to think up a name, you must have vaguely thought about it beforehand. “If I had a baby girl I want to call her Emily”.
But it’s not that easy is it?
Not only have you got to run it by the other person who helped produce the child (although I do think the months of actual pregnancy should give the mother some special privileges, no?), but every Tom, Dick and Harry sticks their ore in too. “Na, I knew an Emily at school. Total. Bitch.”
Anyone who’s had a baby knows this natural law: Time will fly.
You prepared for 9 months to welcome this human. 9 whole months. And not once did you consider the week after you had him.
That a week will have passed and your newborn will no longer actually be newborn.
His little face will have changed already, he will have grown and developed and will be fast becoming ‘him’. Not part of you. Not in you, not attached to you, not feeding off your every blood vessel. His own little dude.
I feel I should put my hands up immediately and admit I’m 35. I hereby declare an interest. In the 80s. I didn’t go to a school prom, not because my train track braces were so ridiculously off-putting to the opposite sex that I couldn’t get a date (could well have been true), but because they hadn’t been invented yet. Or more accurately, they were invented, but only taking place in the land where you can go to a movie drive-thru and American Diners are just called, well, Diners.
And so it is with the apparent grand ‘tradition’ of the baby shower. It’s new. It’s not something we had even heard of ten years ago, apart from on the odd American sitcom. Nowadays though, it seems to the The Thing To Do.