This is a direct transcription of a BBM conversation between me and my sister, the mother of a ridiculously cute eight-month-old boy who refuses to go to sleep until she has sung "Twinkle twinkle little star" fifty times over:
Me: The gripewater dummy failed me. Fortunately I discovered that walking and rocking Leya for an hour, without putting her down, has the same effect.
Her: Ahhh - welcome to my sad and hideous world of walking and rocking. The worst.
Me (some time later): Just realised the walking/rocking must be for TWO hours. She actually refuses to sleep. I think she has nodded off and then I see her glaring out of her judgey pitbullian eyes and she starts grunting and hissing like an ancient Galapagos toroise, as if she can sense my intention to put her down and is warning me against it.
Her: Such a familiar description. Hideous flinty snake-like eyes of the newborn, full of f*ck you mommy.
Yes, one month into motherhood I am finding out that it's not easy. And that's even before Leya turns 13 and refuses to walk out in public with me because it is embarrassing to have parents, and decides that if I do force her to be seen in my company her best camouflage is the tattiest tracksuit she can find. I'm not even talking about my latest accessory: a small patch of crusty dried vom that lives permanently on my right shoulder (moms, you know what I'm talking about). Or the fact that I seem to permanently smell like a dairy that hasn't been properly cleaned. Or that I constantly hear a phantom baby crying - and I'm not talking about confusing hadedas for the sound of a cry, I mean that wherever I go, I can hear those high pitched screams. Also, the other night during my two o'clock feed, I swear I heard cheesy disco music - of the variety usually featured on e.tv's late night Friday programming - coming through the monitor. I'll say no more about the effects of sleep deprivation.
But oh my goodness, smelling like sour milk instead of Bulgari is a small price to pay for experiencing so much love. Today Leya gave me her first real smile - not one of those twitches of her lip that grandparents try to convince you is a little grin. No, this one made her little eyes crinkle and tiny dimples appeared on either side of her beautiful mouth. Ignoring the fact that the sun had yet to rise I raced through to our room to tell James, where she obligingly showed him her latest trick, too. It was heart melting.
Her other facial expressions are just as adorable. I love the way, when she is about to have a feed, she draws her head back and raises her eyebrows while giving her mouth a prissy purse, before looking up at me and flashing those dimples like an old lady at a gin-soaked bridge party saying "well, I don't mind if I do". And when the milk is not come fast enough and she head butts me in the manner of a furious and frustrated woodpecker, snuffling and snorting. And when she's lying in her cot, content and sated, her lips drawn into a half-smile and the tips of her tiny fingers touching, as if she's a diminutive Machiavelli plotting to take over the world.
Who needs sleep anyway?
Me: The gripewater dummy failed me. Fortunately I discovered that walking and rocking Leya for an hour, without putting her down, has the same effect.
Her: Ahhh - welcome to my sad and hideous world of walking and rocking. The worst.
Me (some time later): Just realised the walking/rocking must be for TWO hours. She actually refuses to sleep. I think she has nodded off and then I see her glaring out of her judgey pitbullian eyes and she starts grunting and hissing like an ancient Galapagos toroise, as if she can sense my intention to put her down and is warning me against it.
Her: Such a familiar description. Hideous flinty snake-like eyes of the newborn, full of f*ck you mommy.
Yes, one month into motherhood I am finding out that it's not easy. And that's even before Leya turns 13 and refuses to walk out in public with me because it is embarrassing to have parents, and decides that if I do force her to be seen in my company her best camouflage is the tattiest tracksuit she can find. I'm not even talking about my latest accessory: a small patch of crusty dried vom that lives permanently on my right shoulder (moms, you know what I'm talking about). Or the fact that I seem to permanently smell like a dairy that hasn't been properly cleaned. Or that I constantly hear a phantom baby crying - and I'm not talking about confusing hadedas for the sound of a cry, I mean that wherever I go, I can hear those high pitched screams. Also, the other night during my two o'clock feed, I swear I heard cheesy disco music - of the variety usually featured on e.tv's late night Friday programming - coming through the monitor. I'll say no more about the effects of sleep deprivation.
But oh my goodness, smelling like sour milk instead of Bulgari is a small price to pay for experiencing so much love. Today Leya gave me her first real smile - not one of those twitches of her lip that grandparents try to convince you is a little grin. No, this one made her little eyes crinkle and tiny dimples appeared on either side of her beautiful mouth. Ignoring the fact that the sun had yet to rise I raced through to our room to tell James, where she obligingly showed him her latest trick, too. It was heart melting.
Her other facial expressions are just as adorable. I love the way, when she is about to have a feed, she draws her head back and raises her eyebrows while giving her mouth a prissy purse, before looking up at me and flashing those dimples like an old lady at a gin-soaked bridge party saying "well, I don't mind if I do". And when the milk is not come fast enough and she head butts me in the manner of a furious and frustrated woodpecker, snuffling and snorting. And when she's lying in her cot, content and sated, her lips drawn into a half-smile and the tips of her tiny fingers touching, as if she's a diminutive Machiavelli plotting to take over the world.
Who needs sleep anyway?
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