Milo

Milo
Is that a smile I see before me?

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Last night an iPod saved my life

Talk to midwives, GPs, new parents, grandparents, people who’ve never had kids and random strangers on the street and they’ll all tell you the same thing: the first three months are the worst. The focus is on sleepless nights, nasty nappies, post-partum recovery (or lack thereof), the terrifying lack of freedom, cracked nipples, a sex life that you remember wistfully and a sense of responsibility so heavy that it would flummox Atlas.

I’d steeled myself for all this. But what the naysayers neglected to tell me was how great my baby boy would be. Mum and me sat on the sofa last week, crying with laughter as you pulled a succession of comedy faces. You’re currently lying spread-eagled on your dad’s chest, arms splayed and face squished against the collar of his t-shirt, dribbling. There’s a damp patch where you tried sucking, hoping against hope that Daddy’s t-shirt would elicit some milk.

You are impossibly cute. You like Count Basie (you quit crying and went all still and wide-eyed when Simon played it to you). And although you don’t do much, you change every day: a new sound, a never-heard-before gurgle, attempting to roll over, responding to my voice.

Plus Mum and me bought up Baby Gap last week and I’ve been enjoying (very much) dressing you in tiny boy clothes – proper socks, teensy trousers and miniscule parodies of grown-up polo shirts. You’re like a gurgling, puking, living doll.

Of course, I’d be lying if I said it was all plain sailing. Sleep – I’ve never been one to go without a good eight hours. There have been a fair few nights where I’ve found myself slumped against a bank of pillows, willing you to finish feeding and weeping silently as you show no sign of coming up for air. At 3am there’s nothing so lonely as breastfeeding: Simon is snoring, the dog is snoring, you appear to be sucking and snoring and I feel like I’m the only poor soul in the entire universe who’s wide awake (well, me and the drunken revellers reeling down our street at chucking-out time, but they don’t count because they have a life and I, patently, do not).

And that’s when my iPod came to the rescue. Like a digital knight in shining armour, it’s enabled me to while away the wee small hours listening to podcasts. Those endless night feeds have suddenly become bearable (‘Growth spurts,’ said the midwife, when I asked her if this was normal behaviour. ‘Torture,’ said I, after 4am came and went and you hadn’t taken a boob break FOR FIVE HOURS).

‘How is she doing?’ asked my Dad (AKA Grandad) when Mum stayed with us for a blissful fortnight.
‘She’s very tired,’ said Mum (AKA Grandma)
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad, ‘is she very grumpy?’
‘Well, surprisingly, no, she’s not.’

I am renowned in my family for being incredibly bad tempered if I’m a) tired or b) woken up. But not only have I surprised my parents by not being an absolute cow to anyone who strays within bad-mouthing distance, but I’ve surprised myself. I’m not sure if it’s the iPod or the fact that I stopped fighting the night feeds, but the nights are OK. Not brilliant, but definitely do-able.

And the funny thing is, the minute I stopped being cross about being awake at 3am, you chilled out. OK, so you do sleep in bed with me, and I do quite often stopper your mouth with my boob (I like to think of them as mummy-sized dummies), but you’ve started sleeping for four, sometimes five, hours at a stretch. Compared to only sleeping for an hour at a time, it feels like heaven. I know it’s early days, but, little Milo, your Ma is a whole lot happier.

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