Having had a blissful several days after bringing Colt home, we now seem to be firmly entrenched in that horrible zone of mixed up days and nights, combined with bad trapped wind after every evening/night feed. I wouldn't call it colic, exactly, as the duration of the screeeeeaaaaaming is relatively brief (anywhere from ten minutes to an hour at worst) and he is, for the most part, consolable. He releases huge man belches ("impressive," said the midwife) and farts like a...horse. Unlike Botany, he will quite happily take solace in a pacifer. But it's not enough to ease his poor tummy completely.
And it is wearing. He won't endure being put in his cot for more than half an hour at a time, and then only with white noise thrumming next to him. Last night he was awake every hour, with attendant noisemaking on the spectrum of grizzling to full-on earshattering operatics. Despite taking it in shifts as much as possible, Knox and I are started to look a bit deranged around the eyes. Having been through even worse with Botany, I have complete confidence in the mantra of "it will pass, it will pass"- but with the resigned weariness that it's likely to take some weeks.
Anyway- to start the birth story, albeit in snack size chunks- rewind back to Christmas. I know, it feels like ten million years ago already. My due date and Christmas Eve came and went with nary a twinge. Christmas morning Botany woke up at a entirely civilized nine o'clock. She and I went in to the living room to gaze at the Santa gifts together in awe, sitting together as she tore into a massive carry case of over a dozen My Little Ponies that I had picked up in the charity shop for pennies. I recognised it as a nice moment- just the two of us, on Christmas morning, probably for the last time. When the ponies were brushed, we went to check out whether Santa had eaten his biscuit and drunk his milk (he had) and then everyone else was up, with breakfast on the go. And the rest of the day followed the usual format- presents, vast amounts of chocolate, Christmas telly, turkey. All very pleasing. It became apparent I was not going to go into labour that day, and I was relieved, since it was the one day in the calendar I really preferred not to be at the hospital.
Knox took some pictures with his new camera. I have my eyes closed in every shot, as usual, apart from several where I look intensely weary. The bump, as documented, was massive. "I look horrible and old and unhappy," I commented to Knox when he showed me. "That's what you've looked like pretty much for the last nine months," he said. Oh.
On Boxing Day, more of the same. A nine am start (thank you, my darling Botany), mooching around the house. And nothing on the baby front. The following day, we decided to get out of the house and ventured up to the town. The weather was relatively mild and the streets weren't as crowded as I'd feared. We wandered around the funfair and sent Botany on a few gentle rides, while I hung on the sidelines like a giant staypuff marshmallow man. People eyed my bump with equal measures of amusement and worry, as if I might give birth any second. Oh, wait.
Before waddling home, I bought Botany an enormous helium balloon in the shape of a giant pink pony. It seemed like a good omen, floating above our heads in the waning December light.
And still no baby. 40 weeks plus 4 days overdue, I went to bed that night, looking forward to the midwife appointment the next day- where a plan would be made and things were to be done to get matters moving along at last.
To be continued...