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Life with JJ -- the first months (cont'd)

Monday morning

I had a decent night last night -- two 3-hour intervals of sleep, and one 2-hour one. Perhaps we are working our way into a decent pattern. I still think the amount of milk he drinks is abnormal. He's got a really fat face now, I commonly refer to him as piglet, which he takes with good grace.

We are having our typical morning argument: Mom wants a coffee and a cigarette, Baby wants a breast and lots of cuddles. As usual, Baby wins, and so I sit here nursing, watching my coffee slowly go cold.

You know, I really thought Annie LaMott was taking the piss when she referred to not having brushed her teeth in three days, but it's all starting to look all too realistic. I can barely make it to the toilet before he starts crying again. He keeps feeding a bit, dozing off, and then wanting more. The scary thing is it's only quarter past 10, and he's spent more time on my breast than off. I've got these visions of his little stomach exploding under the pressure, and then all that's left of Baby is a couple puddles of milk.

Still, at least I managed to get dressed and make a couple of phone calls, even if I don't seem to be able to get to brush my hair or teeth or any of the other niceties (like eating) which I once took for granted.

I don't suppose I could trade him in for a model that gets more miles to the gallon?

Tonight's going to consist of a glass of wine, Coronation Street (my favourite soap opera now that I'm sitting home most the time), and some more reading. Hey, thrill a minute. Add in a couple of nappy changes, and it's highlife and confetti all around. Can this really be my life?

Tuesday morning

The monster demon baby from hell has been keeping me awake since 3:30am. He just refuses to sleep, cries although he's been fed and changed, and basically doing his damndest to make me miserable. I'm going to have to sell him to the gypsies.

If I could at least drink my coffee so I didn't feel quite so washed out. If I don't get some sleep I'll become one of those mothers who does horrible things to their baby, "accidentally" drop him down the stairs, anything for an hour of peace and quiet.

Is it too late to change my mind?

We are going to have to do something here, before I totally fall apart. I just keep looking at myself, lying in bed for hours reading and nursing and desperately trying to get some sleep, and all I can think is "This is not my life. This is not my life." This can't be happening to me.

Luckily for Connor, he is the sweetest, most magical little thing in the world, especially when he's dozed off in my arms during a feed. Little rose-bud lips unlike anything I've ever seen. If he weren't so beautiful, so perfect a little person, I'm sure I would have thrown him against a wall by now.

As it is, just as I'm at my most frustrated and annoyed, he raises his eyebrows at me, or gives me that look which my mother translated as "I'm sorry, I am trying to be good." or even just stares at me with those huge grey eyes, and I feel my heart melting.

I won't sell him to the gypsies today. Maybe tomorrow, though.

Wednesday

Connor is restless today -- I think he's bored. At any rate, dancing around the living room seems to be sorting him out.

I still think he's got an inordinate amount of wind, this can't be normal, even for a boy.

Friday August 12th

Saturday

I don't feel much like being a mommy today. I don't understand how any child can have so much wind.

My stepfather has what he calls his "full-basket" theory, you are never going to get 100% of what you want, a full basket, so you look at what's most important to you. I think it could apply here - there are babies that are good looking and not colicky, but with noisy, frequent bodily functions; and there are horrible ugly babies who are quiet, but the chances of a good looking baby with no colic and quiet bodily functions are slim and none.

I contemplate this thought, and come to the conclusion that I got a pretty good deal, when I realize that he's expelling noxious substances straight through his nappy and onto my lap. Charming. Maybe I would prefer an ugly baby who didn't shit quite so much.

He looks up at me apologetically, and drinks a bit more without crying or fussing, and I end up reassuring him that there is no chance of my trading him in, although he doesn't look 100% convinced.