Leya has developed a nasty, nasty habit of sounding the alarm at 5am. And as much as I start to miss her after she has been asleep for a couple of hours, that pre-dawn squawk makes me realise that sometimes it is nicer to miss someone than it is to spend time with them.
That sounds mean. I don't mean it to be, but in my head, the freshly woken Leya is a cuddly ball that snuggles into me and lets me doze for a couple of hours in my feathery soft haven of a bed.
In reality, there is nothing fresh about the newly awake Leya: there she is, waiting with a foully sour nappy that blasts my still not quite functioning senses with violent force. That first nappy change is always a challenge: I must remember that, although it may seem like a good idea to keep the lights on dim in order to shield eyes which at this stage feel as vulnerable and naked as newly hatched turtles, it's just not worth it. Adding to the difficulties is the burst of energy which comes upon Leya the minute she is placed on the change mat, so that she is jigging around like a possessed highland dancer - always a danger when there is a dirty nappy nearby.
Having successfully prevented an unsavoury incident of poohfoot, I carry her hopefully back to my bedroom, place her among the pillows, and hope that this lushly comfortable environment will lull her back to slumber. To ensure she gets the message, I look at her encouragingly with my eyes closed. She responds with her own message: a boisterous "HOOOOOOOOOOO", delivered with a swift kick to the cesar scar, as if reminding me that I signed up for this.
Still I refuse to open my eyes, and still she refuses to shut hers. In fact, she mounts her campaign, grabbing a fistful of eyelid and gently plucking it. Next, it's a chunk of cheek that gets twisted like an Oreo that's being pulled apart to get to the cream, before she spots her real target: my hair.
Now, I must just say at this point that my hair is not looking good. I have written before about the delicate relationship I have with my follicles, and how the actual strands, like a tempermental and fraught fiance, seem ready to up and leave at any minute. It appears they have done that a lot lately: I confess that I spent a good deal of time in the office bathroom the other day, staring at the shiny bits of scalp which are becoming visible through the sparse fronds. The situation has not been helped by my daughter, who doesn't realise that my hair is a scarce and precious resource. I have heard of other babies who liked to stroke their mommies' hair, or twirl it around their fingers. My Tarantino-esque daughter likes to yank giant fistfuls of it, leaving it littering the bed, the carpet - the other day I even (gag) found some stuck to the ice in the freezer.
Unable to take the pain any more, I devise a canny solution (one that would make better mothers turn pale): I will feed her to sleep. However, she has come up with her own game plan: she will finesse her fine motor skills. She does this by pincering little bits of boob, then twisting them between her daggery little nails. When I gasp in pain, she looks at me, eyes wide and delighted, then grasps my nose in her tiny hand and pulls.
By now I feel like an abused woman. I have come to realise that she has no intention of letting me go back to sleep and so, bruised and battered, I take her to the playmat - where she begins a fresh assault. Whoever invented those talking toys she be drawn and quartered - but only after they have been made to listen to half an hour of electronic dogs barking to the tune of Old McDonald.
All this, and it's not even 5.30 yet. YAWN.
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