Milo

Milo
Is that a smile I see before me?

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

A Christmas Story

Last Christmas…

Here I am, sitting in Mum and Dad’s living room, surrounded by wrapping paper and half-opened presents, thinking, ‘You know what would make this better? A baby. Wouldn’t it be good to have a baby in time for next Christmas?’

I glance furtively at Simon, trying in vain to read his mind. Nothing. And then I shelve the thought, filing it in the box in my mind marked ‘for when I’m grown up’. Babies - or rather, having babies - is something that is a good idea only in theory, something to be put off until such a time as I feel ready. I think of all those sleepless nights and dirty nappies and shudder.

Last January…

I am in Bangkok, sitting in the shade of a banyan tree, looking out over the murky waters of the Chao Phraya. I’m here to finish my novel, to write a travel feature and to get away from work. An unopened book lies on my lap. I am thinking of absolutely nothing: no worries about what people think of this strange farang sitting on her own; no deadlines; no need to think of the next thing to do, or think of all the things I should be doing. Sparrows hop about above my head, occasionally darting to the ground to peck at the ants marching purposefully around my feet. I stay perfectly, blissfully, still. For the first time in my life, I am happy just to be.

Last Valentine’s…

Simon and I go out for a romantic meal, drink too much and, when he suggests we have a baby, we both giggle. In the cold light of the following day, even with a monstrous hangover, it still seems like a good idea.

This Christmas…

There’s a glass of champagne by my side, the dog has a Christmas squeaky toy in his mouth, I’ve just polished off the remainder of the After Eights and Simon is wrestling with a nut roast in the kitchen. Christmas dinner is not going well. Simon has just popped his head round the door to tell me that a) the parsnips have cooked but the carrots haven’t, b) the roast potatoes have degenerated into a fluffy mush and c) the nut roast would probably be OK but for the fact that he can’t get it in the oven due to said root vegetables clogging up all available space. To counteract the likelihood that dinner will be ‘the worst meal you’ve ever eaten’, Simon is knocking back port, red wine and champagne. I’m not sure how this helps me.

And then Simon walks over to where you are lying in my lap. ‘Ah, who cares about Christmas dinner?’ he says. ‘Look at him. He’s an absolute angel.’

Simon totters off; you give me a milky gurgle and promptly puke all down your festive dungarees.

So here I am, sitting in my own living room, surrounded by wrapping paper and opened presents, thinking, ‘You know what would make this better? Nothing. Nothing at all.’

PS. For the record, Simon’s Christmas dinner was lovely…

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.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Remembering Sunday

I am a mother. Or rather, I am your mother. I know this is obvious to you; that you will only ever know me as 'mum' and that the idea of me having a life before you were born is unfathomable. For a great many years - and possibly for the whole of your life - you'll find it hard to consider me anything other than that slightly annoying woman who tells you off, washes your clothes and cooks your dinner.

Yes, Mum, I have done my homework. No, Mum, I didn't mean to kick that football into next door's garden. No, Mum, how was I supposed to know that if I fed the dog chicken it would puke it back up all over your new carpet?

But I digress. I am your mother: you were born on Remembrance Sunday, 11 November 2007, at 8.50pm at Trafford General Hospital. You weighed a 'good' (according to the midwives) 6lb 7oz - 'good' because you were three weeks early. And I laughed when you were born. I was so delighted with it, with your appearance, that I actually laughed. It was incredible, to meet this tiny, perfect baby.

It felt like I'd known you all my life. You looked like you. You looked like my son, Milo: of course that's your snub nose, of course that's your shock of dark hair. Of course those are your murky blue eyes.

You just made sense.

It wasn't then, though, that I fell in love with you. Simon - your Dad - reckons he fell in love at your 12 week scan but I know the moment I fell in love. It was 24 hours later, in the dead of night. I looked down as I fed you, at your eyes tightly closed and your fist curled around my little finger and felt this big rush of love. Wham. My heart was yours.

You'll break it, of course, a thousand times over, but that's OK. I'll still love you.

And part of the rush of love is, I know, hormonal, the ebb and flow of the all-purpose hormone, Oxytocin. The one that brings on labour, that produces milk, that makes me love you like a mother. Clever stuff. Potent, too.

So welcome to the world, Milo James. I hope you like it.