9.5 Weeks / Borth Beach / 01.07.14 Jonny has taken Sam out for a walk to give me some time alone. It feels foreign. It’s hard to imagine a time when it was just me now. I’m still on half alert for his whimpers, not quite relaxed as I should be as I bathe in the unusual sunshine on a deserted Welsh beach. I can move freely. I can lie down. I can use both hands. I can shut my eyes and drift away.
Or else write down some of the things I’ve been meaning to over the last month. I do love my little limpet. The way that he needs me to reassure him and tend to his every need in this new and scary world. I just needed a little break. Some me time; it’s been a while. It’s not quite the same when J has him at home. If I’m attempting a nap upstairs, I’ll always have an ear out for the inconsolable squarks that will inevitably make their way back to my boobs. Either that, or it’ll be my boobs making their way back to him. Even after two and a half months, I don’t want to miss out on a second with my family. People call him the happy baby. In the supermarket and in Bumps and Babies – he totally charms the ladies with his gleeful eyes and gummy smile. He coos along with conversations and bursts with the most exuberant squeals of laughter. He loves his baby gym, his mobile and the knitted birds that fly above his changing mat. He’s beginning to bat at his toys and at five weeks rolled from his tum to his back. He’s a strong little guy, standing tall on his legs, his head always up and looking about, soaking up what he sees. We have the best conversations. Every morning we sing our song ‘today is going to be a lovely day’, clapping his hands and each evening we talk about what we’ve seen and done whilst I rub his belly dry. He never fails to laugh when I go ‘blululululula’, poking my tongue out at him. He can also scream a lot too. Which incidentally seems to be what my family are mostly witness to although it changes from day to day. I’m still learning the balance between sleep and waking, and am not yet able to distinguish between cries. There are times when i find myself trying desperately to muster smiles of encouragement from somewhere in the depths of my exhaustion. It’s not easy. But I still can’t get over it. He’s ours. He’s real. I can feed him with my rubbish small boobies that stole the confidence of my teens and twenties. He nuzzles into me, his tiny dimpled hand clutching at my chest while his eyes (that have turned into deep pools of Guinness) fix on mine or stare intently ahead as he concentrates on the job in hand. He sounds so satisfied as he gulps, latching on with an intense little frown while his jaw works with an instant urgency. It’s just so damn sweet. Despite the night-drenched tops as I still can’t seem to get the supply right, I am savouring it all. I have had quite a few soppy reality crashing down on my head moments of late. Tears a plenty. Lily’s second pregnancy in How I Met Your Mother set me right off. Then there was the time that Chris Evans played Travis ‘Why does it always rain on me’ as an ode to Glastonbury. I’ll always associate that song with the angsty coming of age GCSE summer – my dad bought me the album as a treat during the balmy evenings of revision. It was a hot summer, 1999 (in my memory at least). My window in the back bedroom always open to the scent of jasmine and cigarettes, the sound of my parent’s chatter and no doubt incessant MSN dings of some Dawson’s Creek fuelled over-inflated conversation on my PC.
I digress. Hearing that song hit me super hard as to how far I’ve come. How I’m actually doing what I was waiting for then. I was finding my way to the path that would lead to my baby in my arms. Fifteen years on, tears were falling upon his fluffy head whilst I sang a wobbly rendition and swayed barefoot around my bedroom. Call me over sentimental but hey. Blame it on Dawson’s Creek.