I have just noticed a bright orange poo stain on my trousers. Me, who used to shop at Jigsaw and have my hair done at Trevor Sorbies, with baby poo on my clothes. Admittedly I only ever bought stuff on sale and it was the £5 model nights at the hairdressers but I do feel my standards have slipped somewhat. It’s a slippery slope to a shell suit lifestyle and I am half way down it.
I am the milk slave. I am also knackered. The two things are connected. We go through this night time ritual of working out what the baby is crying about and it’s usually milk. Spilt milk too as no one ever told me that while you feed with one breast the other leaks. I am sleeping on a bath towel so I don’t have to wash the sheets daily. My bits are healing well, if a bit unevenly so I will have to scrap the idea of making my living as a centerfold, damn. I had a bit of a teary day when I thought I wasn’t coping too well, but my emotions have settled back into postnatal happiness now.
The Small Thing
Small has no concept of reasonable hours. He has been waking up very early, not for a feed or a change, but just to be excited about being alive. This is so endearing it is impossible to be at all angry with him. He joined the library this week (with a little help). His eyes widen and he waves his arms around if you show him high contrast things, and he is sometimes interested in mirrors. I am really looking forward to being able to read him books, what a perfect excuse to read kids books again.