June 30, 2005
.. but I was only eight weeks old!
I haven't talked here much about how hard it is to look after you. I haven't talked about how frustrated I get with you. I haven't gone into the times when I just want to put you down and walk away and close the door.
Those times happen, punkin, they do. Being as tired as we are (your mother more than I, she's the one who gets up to feed you at 3am when I just snuffle and roll over), faced with the constant barrage of your demands, it gets tough. When we don't know what's wrong or how to fix it, all we have is an inconsolable child, throwing his head back and wailing incessantly.
To put it mildly, this gets tiring. It gets tiring, and frustrating, and maddening, and tough to take. Several times a day, your mum and I perform the 'screaming baby swap', in which the parent who has been bearing the brunt of your cries and grumpiness to that point handpasses you to the other, often without warning. One can be sitting in front of the TV, punkling, or reading a book, or playing videogames, and have a child land unbidden in one's lap. It's some insane parody of the miracle of birth, except there's no doctors there and there's CERTAINLY no midwives who will come and look after you so we can get some sleep.
Having said that, it only takes one look from you, one grin or cheeky smile, and it all melts away. I fall in love with you ten times a day, punkin, and that's never going to change.