The thing is, punkin, Trish is right. Being a parent is hard hard hard work. She's right also, about it being the most rewarding thing you ever do, and she's right about it being terribly terribly difficult to avoid offering you to any given door-to-door salespeople.
I'm not sure about the evolutionary reason for this extraordinarily long period of fractured and interrupted sleep. I can see that there must be some reason for needing to break down our psychological defences - perhaps it's so you can more effectively imprint on us.
More likely, it's simply that your cute little belly (as I write this, it's round and tight as a drum) can't hold enough food to keep you going for the six hours in a row that I need to sleep in order to function effectively in society.
Tonight, however, is a new night, and seeing as how you've only been around for (see what no sleep does? I can't even multiply eight by seven in my head. Sure, it's one of the hard ones, but really, I'm not at the top of my game kid) 57 nights so far, let's see if tonight we can all sleep tight.
Love you.
June 30, 2005
.. but I was only eight weeks old!
Another visit to the maternal health nurse, another couple of entries on your graphs.
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.
Love you.
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.
Love you.
June 28, 2005
Star gazing
You will notice, my darling punkin, that in NOT ONE of the photos from this set that I am currently sending are your eyes closed.
This is likely to be related to the fact that you're currently smack in the middle of what is referred to variously as your 'six-week-spurt', or as here, your 'six week slump'.
Loosely translated, this entails you performing any one of the following at what seems to be entirely random intervals:
That's right.
Go to sleep, punkling, please.
Love you.
This is likely to be related to the fact that you're currently smack in the middle of what is referred to variously as your 'six-week-spurt', or as here, your 'six week slump'.
Loosely translated, this entails you performing any one of the following at what seems to be entirely random intervals:
- Feeding until your eyes bulge;
- Giggling, laughing, making cute noises;
- Smiling and playing and staring at either the bedframe or the wallhanging, depending on which room we're in;
- Grunting;
- Grizzling;
- Filling your nappy while you smile at me;
- Puking on me and then smiling at me; and
- Screaming blue murder.
That's right.
Go to sleep, punkling, please.
Love you.
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