Whether you consider newborn babies as intelligent, complex creatures or little more than fancy digestive tracts, they do come equipped with high tolerance and a capacity for flattery. For example, my Precious First Born (PFB) can’t even see my face; all he knows is my voice, but I really can’t think of anyone else who would especially wake me up at night to smell my knock-out morning breath. It must be love, surely!
He doesn’t mind my god-awful tuneless singing. He doesn’t mind me tickling his nose and ears for a laugh when he’s sleeping (there has to be some payback!). The poor guy doesn’t even mind me taking nude pictures of him for posterity when he’s having a bath. Given he’s got me for his mother, he puts up with a lot, so the least I can do is not crib about the nights he keeps me awake.
Eternal Bonds
During those wee hours of night/morning, my son breaks the calm by lustily exercising his lungs, complete with a full range of Bollywood worthy expressions: first comes the quivering lower lip, then he scrunches up his face and goes bright red, followed by what seems like a short but intense inner struggle. And then as if he truly can not bear it – whatever “it” is – any longer, he lets out a cry at full blast.
My husband’s hardy, so he sleeps through it but this brings my mother scurrying to my room, solicitously inquiring after her precious grandchild. No mama, we are fine, this is what babies do, please go back to sleep, say I, trying to be rational and grown-up. But she lingers, asking if I need a break, asking if she can have a go at soothing him.
I guess she knows that I’ll probably start crying soon enough if he doesn’t let up.
Simply Awed
In addition to me, PFB’s entourage obviously includes his Nani and Papaji and it seems all three of us can’t do enough. Case in point: for his bath, we all check and debate the temperature of the water. Then mama holds his head above the water in his tiny second-hand tub, my husband gently sponges him and I stand by with his towel. He gets a coconut oil massage on his body and almond oil on his face. The hair gets nothing because according to his trendy Papaji, the oily look doesn’t suit him.
Ah well. It is all a bit insane and unsustainable… and about to change very soon. My mother’s month-long stint comes to an end next week and I suspect that is when I will truly grasp the meaning of “tired”, “exhausted”, “sleep-deprived gibbering wreck”.
Because I’ll tell ya’ll child-less people this: I think my son is super cute and I love him and all that jazz, but this baby lark is not for the faint-hearted. They all talk about the miracle of motherhood, and I’m guilty of this too, but it’s bloody hard work. Quite thankless, frequently frustrating, relentlessly relentless, often nerve-shredding and yes, 24x7. Twentyfourseven. Breaks if you’re lucky. And just when you think, hey I’ve got this, wham! they throw a curve-ball, just to keep you on your toes. Like as soon as I mastered a zen-like state during my PFB’s evening colic-induced crying sessions, he started executing perfect little projectile vomits. Aw, bless – he learnt this all on his own, zero coaching – ain’t he a genius ;)
(Simrat Ghuman is Head of Communications and Marketing at Anthemis Group in London. A former TV journo, she has just taken her first step into motherhood and will be serialising her quirky take on motherhood in the ‘Gurwilliam Ki Ma’ blogposts. You can read her (hilarious) journey through pregnancy in the Preggers blog below.)
You may also read:
- Dealing With Being Preggers: I am making a Baby!
- Dealing With Being Preggers: Just Where Do Grandparents Fit In?
- Dealing With Being Preggers: Why Not Gurwilliam Singh?
- Dealing With Being Preggers: Of Cravings And Indulgence
- Dealing With Being Preggers: Husband and I, Rowing the Pregnancy Boat
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