9.5 Weeks / Borth Beach / 01.07.14 Papa has taken you 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 your 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 love my little limpet. The way that you need me to reassure you and tend to your every need in this new and scary world. But now I’ve got some me time; it’s been a while. It’s not quite the same when your with Papa 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 me making my way back to you. As soppy as it sounds, even after two and a half months, I don’t want to miss out on a second with my family. People call you the happy baby. In the supermarket and in ‘Bumps and Babies’ – you totally charm the ladies with your gleeful eyes and gummy smile. You coo along with conversations and burst with the most exuberant squeals of laughter. You love your baby gym, your mobile and the knitted birds that fly above your changing mat. You’re beginning to bat at your toys and at five weeks rolled from your tum to your back. You’re a strong little guy, standing tall on your legs, your head always up and looking about, soaking up what you see. My meerkat. We have the best conversations. Every morning we sing our song like some kind of cultish holiday camp ‘today is going to be a lovely day’. It’s a bit weird but we like it. I help you clap your hands and each evening we talk about what we’ve seen and done whilst I rub your belly dry. You never fail to laugh when I go ‘blululululula’, whilst poking out my tongue. ‘Douf douf douf’ is also a hit. The hilarity.You can also scream a lot too, sweet Samiad. 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. You are ours. You are real. I can feed you with my rubbish small boobies that stole the confidence of my teens and twenties. You nuzzle into me, your tiny dimpled hand clutching at my chest while your eyes (that have turned into deep pools of Guinness) fix on mine or stare intently ahead as you concentrate on the job. You sound so satisfied as you gulp, latching on with an intense little frown while your jaw works with an instant urgency. It’s 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 in 1999 – my dad bought me the album as a treat during the balmy evenings of revision. My window in the back bedroom always open to the scent of jasmine, 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 pretty much waiting for then. Fifteen years on, tears were falling upon your 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.