My baby boy – five weeks of fun
There is something ironic about writing about time when I am hurriedly typing before the baby wakes up. Yes, to summarise, time – I don’t have very much of it anymore. So, let’s cut to the chase:
Things I don’t have time for anymore:
Taking off chipped nail polish
- Reading (all forms – books completely, Sunday papers, full articles in magazines)
- Lazy chats with friends (calls and texts are perfunctory – where are we meeting, when, Ok see you there)
- Wearing make up
- Watching a TV programme of more than 30 minutes
- Shopping / trying on clothes
- Showers or baths that last more than 7 minutes
- Chilling in a beer garden for a pint, maybe two, oh go on three
- Drying hair
- Putting away things I use often, leading to an increased (but quite homely) state of clutter throughout the house
- Shutting the door before using the bathroom
- Non-essential DIY and chores
- Extended kisses and cuddles with The Chef
- Pottering and general farting about
- Writing well thought-out blog posts
A typical day
7am – wake up to baby crying, go to nursery, marvel as ever at what a gorgeous little angel he is, marvel at how he can be crying that much already, pick up baby, smell baby’s bottom, panic at level that crying has risen to, stick boob in baby’s mouth. Relax.
7.02am – wish I’d actually had time to pee, get a glass of water and something to eat. Realise am starving.
7.04am – wish I could actually breastfeed hands free and therefore increase entertainment options. Sigh. Lift iPhone with available hand, craning neck painfully, scroll through Facebook and twitter and Mail Online. Pray Kim Kardashian will one day discover maternity leggings. Do online shopping – supermarket food, clothes that will actually fit me (maternity clothes looking ridiculous sans bump, pre-preggie clothes too tight), baby bundles on eBay for ever growing offspring.
7.45am – baby comatose. Chuffed. Have a cuddle and cover him in kisses. Wipe off milk sick from clothes / face. Put him on play matt to kick about.
8am – I’m freeee! I’m freeeeee! Ok I have like 15 minutes before he realizes I’m not there so:
- run to kitchen, make toast, and tea lots of tea, put on tray
- tidy living room from last night’s slump on sofa, wash baby clothes, marvel at how many clothes baby gets through, put on dishwasher, marvel at how many cups of tea and cake have been consumed since last time
- wash and sterilize breast pump and put on tray
- hear baby crying, bollocks, run back to nursery
8.15am – lovely playtime with cute baby boy
8.45am – not so lovely playtime with slightly grissly windy baby boy, trying desperately to wind him down. Give up and stick boob in again.
9am – swaddle baby boy, play sheep wave music, pray he drifts off, tiptoe out…
I’m freeeee! I’m freeee!!! Ok I have like 45 minutes before he realizes I’m not there so…
This routine repeats itself throughout the day. To be specific, and according to my new friend Gina Ford, it repeats itself 6 times a day at intervals of 3 – 4 hours. Every second, every minute of my day is accounted for. I constantly look at the clock. I am constantly rushing, constantly planning what I need to do, working back from the next feed. I often have to drop everything for a crying baby (and my son is incredibly chilled out, I’m really really lucky). I can’t sit still and relax, until I hit a wall around 8pm and then literally cannot move. My life revolves around feeds - if I’m not breastfeeding, I’m expressing so The Chef can feed him. I am jealous of people who can sit in beer gardens whiling away hours. I forget to have lunch, forget to call friends, forget birthday cards and replying to texts. It gets to 2pm and I’m still unshowered and in PJs. I understand why my mummy friends send such short succinct texts and feel bad for getting annoyed before. I only have 2 pairs of trousers which actually fit me (but that’s a different story).
And I have written this thing in approximately 17 minutes and my baby is waking up so I have to rush off now…
…But as I said, time – I don’t have very bloody much of it…