I’m 8 weeks in.
I can feel my face again… I can almost hold an adult conversation… and I no longer spend every moment the baby isn’t awake in the foetal position, rocking, sobbing and spooning Nutella into my mouth with a Sophie the Giraffe…
I can see the light at the end of the liquid-yellow-shit-stained tunnel, and there’s mascara, wine, and underwired bras there… *stares wistfully off into distance at the thought of real underwear again…*
So now that the newborn fog has begun to clear, let me impart my wise learnings from the past 2 months…
There will be poos. Many poos… More poos than you ever thought possible for a 60cm human being to produce. And after the first 24 hours of attempting to clean stringy-korma-mustard-turd off of a tiny wrinkly scrotum sack with cotton balls and sterilised tears, you too will be Amazon-Priming the shit out of the Johnsons’s baby wipes like the rest of us. Fact.
NB – If your baby isn’t pooing, simply dress them in white, put on a nice top, or attempt to leave the house on time… and watch the poonami commence.
The internet told me that newborn babies like to sleep for 18 hours a day… *pauses to wait for hysterical cry-laughing to stop* and I can see the funny side of this now that I’ve realised the internet is a FULL OF MOTHER-FRIGGING LIES. (and is mostly cats.)
Besides, if you slept when the baby was sleeping, when would you fit in your gin? That 20 minutes IS your only #ginwindow; your time Tanqueray, tears and reminiscing about the area you used to call your vagina… and now looks like something a fox threw-up…
Babies are pretty boring during the day though… perhaps because need to get their rest in during daylight so they’ve got the energy to really f@*k your shit up at at night.
If ever there was a time where you considered your breasts our own… those times are gone. Long gone… like the elasticity of your stomach skin and labia…. You are one giant on-demand udder. Held together with clicky-clippy nursing fastenings. *flinches*
In the beginning, there was plague, famine, death and destruction. Then. There was Colic. Which is totally actually worse. And mostly consists of feeding your child. Then watching them explode like an tiny, angry, milky baby-volcano, while you shout something like… WHERE THE F@*KING TWATTING TWAT IS THE MUSLIN. DEAR GOD IT’S IN MY EYES. NOW IT’S DRIBBLING INTO MY MOUTH. GOD. WHYYYY. WHYYYYYYYYYY….
Then finding the muslin in your hand.
And probably doing a shot.