Sunday, 19 August 2012

Felix's handy hints and tips on how to rule the world.


(or how to get your lazy parents out of bed on a Sunday morning)

1. Summon up the biggest poonami yet on Mummy - squidge as much poo out of your nappy and onto mummy's belly as possible (the stinkier the better) bonus points for getting it on the clean-on-last-night duvet cover.

Then, whilst Mummy runs screaming naked to the shower...

2. Wait until Daddy places you on the bed after clean up and vomit copiously forcing Daddy to strip you bare (try to aim it at Daddy if at all possible).

And then, just as Daddy is about to bring you to Mummy in the shower...

3. Produce an impressive pee fountain on the bed (try to aim it at Daddy if at all possible).

4. Enjoy your shower, pretend nothing happened and be calmer than you have been in days.




Tuesday, 14 August 2012

8 weeks and 1 day. Really?


They are right, aren't they? Time is whooshing past in a blur of nappies, screaming, cuddles, naps, pumping, playing, bathtime, screaming, sleeplessness, the occasional smile, aching arms, vomit, poo, pee and love.



 Felix is currently as grumpy as he can be. Crying, growling, screaming etc etc and sometimes only seems truly content when he is asleep. He is in the midst of a major growth spurt and seems to lengthen in front of our eyes. He is almost too big for his pram which is supposed to last until 6 months. Ha.

Breastfeeding is a bust. We have had appointments with the breastfeeding nurses at the hospital and they are wonderful. They think his traumatic birth might be something to do with his big-time-arched-back-screaming aversion to the boob with or without nipple shield but I think it was the many midwives who forcibly thrust him on a nipple all hours of the day and night whilst he screamed the ward down during the week we were in hospital.




They arranged for me to borrow a double pump and after many days of hourly pumping, twice hourly pumping, half hourly pumping, two hourly pumping and random what-the-hell-time-is-it pumping my supply did not increase. Not. one. little. bit. I get a dribble. Pah. My boobs don't like machines. He takes the boob less and less and less and then only as a dummy/finger substitute. But I'm not quite ready to let myself give up on the pumping yet and certainly not on the comforting. Some stubborn sense of what if I suppose.

We were sent to check out a possible non-obvious tongue tie situation with a maxillofacial specialist wherein I hid down the corridor as they checked him out (would have snipped there and then - brave Ray!) I heard him screaming which made me want to burst through the door and rescue him, but when they called me back in they said he was fine but his jaw is a bit "petite" at the moment, which may be the problem. Sigh.



We have tried "rebirthing" in the bath and surprisingly he wanted to nurse but was immediately frustrated at the lack of flow and ended up nibbling. Sigh. Although bathing with him is lovely and not something I will be giving up. At least not until he can point and laugh.

Oh I have been broken hearted and cried and cried. I wanted SO much to breastfeed. So very very much. On the one hand I am bereft. I feel as if I have missed out again. I didn't get the birth experience I wanted and now I can't breastfeed? How unfair is that?

On the other hand. Look. I have my Felix. My perfect glorious, fabulous, marvellous, wondrous son! Everything else is icing on the cake.



Felix is awesomeness personified. I look at him and... wow... he's here, he's real, he's alive! Pinch me. Every. Single. Day. Seriously. Pinch me.

I love his vigour, even in the midst of a screaming-for-nothing-obvious-tried-everything-might-as-well-join-in round. I love each scream that rips out of his lungs. I love the enormoburps, the fartipants, the spit up, poomageddon and the poonamis, the grunts and growls and howls. I love watching him develop and change. I love watching him sleep. I love the huge grins that herald sleep and are just, just beginning to show up outside of sleep. I love that my arms ache from holding him and my back hurts from rocking him. Selfishly, I love that it's me he wants. That family hand him back to me. That Ray hands him to me. That he's mine mine mine. For now anyway, until he discovers that daddy plays the coolest games.

Unconditional love is amazing.

Oh and how long does it take before I stop looking for the rise and fall of his chest?






LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails