It’s official. My newborn baby-boy has turned 6-months old.
I’m wondering how this could have happened considering he was only whipped out of my fandanjo the other day right?! But I’ve checked, re-checked and wept uncontrollably into a large gin as I triple-checked the dates and it’s true.
I’m just not sure how six entire months could have passed by without me ‘noticing’ to be honest… but then I suppose repeatedly being pelted in the face with toddler shoes and/or faeces, and only being allowed to sleep for approximately 23 minutes a night has probably affected my ability to concentrate… and focus… and get through the morning without wine…
This is my second and my last baby. And despite trying really, really hard to revel in every moment… it’s all still flying by way too quick. The moses basket is a distant memory, in fact it’s now being used to store surplus nappies, outgrown baby clothes and house a family of small woodland creatures… (that last bit could be a lie), the carrycot has long since left the buggy – a moment I am still mourning/pathetically weeping at (although that could be mostly down to wine) and his sleeping bag is now so enormous it could fit not only him, but a plethora of babies, along with plenty room for the woodland creature family too… A fact that is making me have a small breakdown.
I can’t tell you the exact date and time he first smiled, the precise moment he noticed his feet, or recall the first time he rolled over… I didn’t write any of it down… because I was too exhausted to see, or remember how to write, and was slightly distracted by a 3-year eating Sudocrem and sellotaping nappies onto our cats (they love that)…
I just can’t shake the sense of guilt… have I paid enough attention? Attended enough baby classes? Given him everything his older sister had? (Although I’m stipulating now for the record that he will only be allowed one colour of play-doh. Ever. And there will be NO MOTHER-CHUFFING PLAY-SAND.) (Or f@*king glitter.)
I’m probably just being a knob. But I can’t help but feel ever-so-slightly absolutely f@*king devastated that he’s using a high chair, trying to sit up by himself, already growing out of his 6-9 month clothing, and turning down my nipples in favour of devouring Ella’s Kitchen pouches… *sobs* Yeah, thanks ‘The Purple One’ for making my tits sad and lonely. THANKS A LOT. (Just kidding – please don’t leave me, I need you to wean my baby for me because I’m way too lazy to puree anything for myself this time. Sorry thanks sorry. Shit. Sorry.) (Shit)
I’m smiling on the outside, but inside I’m desperately trying to get my shit together enough to remember what’s been happening the last few months… Even the Real Housewives of Atlanta aren’t helping. THESE ARE SERIOUSLY DESPERATE TIMES PEOPLE.
The lasts of the firsts. God it’s depressing. And means I’m drinking prosecco like it’s gonna run out… (Which apparently it is. Better up my intake. You know, to be sensible. Or something.)
I’m sure I’m not alone feeling this way… I’m on the verge of shoving him back in the moses basket, ramming him into teeny weeny white baby-gros and forcing him back on the boob 75 times a day… so if you see a slightly crusty, legging-clad woman roaming around the streets with a giant baby wedged into carry-cot, weeping and dragging a shoe-less toddler about behind her… that’s probably me.