That’s days and years. 21 days done. At least 21 years to go.
21 days to form a habit they say. I guess that makes Zane my new habit.
I’m talking about my newborn son and how much time we have left in our Provider-Consumer relationship.
Many wise parents scoff at 21 and say it’s more like 21 times ‘n’.
For now, I have new-found respect for cows. How do the poor things stand being constantly milked? My bub makes sure I know how this feels. While I enjoy being food and comfort giver, I also sometimes crave to not have a 3 kilo attachment at my chest, with the suction prowess of dental tools.
Does that make me a bad mum? Definitely not. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t asked myself that question. A million times over.
This morning at 4 am when I took a carefully timed pee-break, hoping my son didn’t wake up and start screaming bloody murder, I looked in the mirror and did a double take.
The sleepy face with scraggly hair and smudged mascara-like dark circles was me! I looked so ridiculous, I had to laugh. And laugh I did. Loudly! The experts weren’t lying when they said medicate with laughter. Almost immediately my sleep-deprived body perked up and I started appreciating the lighter side of being a new mum.
Did you know one in four women get depressed after delivery? It’s not difficult to see why. Added to being almost solely responsible for keeping a tiny babe alive, (often with zero prior training); comes the fact of having him/her attached to you at the (far from proverbial) hip, breast, tummy, heart and soul.
Heart and soul are both beautiful and devastating. Hearing your baby cry is sufficient to tear that heart into pieces. Seeing him giggle and smile makes you soar to the high heavens. The joy is indescribable!
Not to mention leaky boobs. The mums that breastfed know precisely what I mean. When one is active, the other is anything but passive. Get upset and your eyes are not the only ones producing fluid. Lie on your belly or try to and you’ll see who’s in the way!
My favourite is tummy to tummy with my son. The warmth and proximity are simply heartening. There’s just something magical, mystical even, about connecting like this with my baby. Maybe it’s gut instinct?
This minute fellow is so precious to me. I love my new toy, er.. boy. Hubby gets instantly nervous when I say toy. He starts checking for signs of depression or any other feature that doesn’t fit my super-mum avatar. I’m not sure he believes me when I say I’m kidding!
All jokes aside, I am in a good place now, after a tough start. I am content with being a less than perfect mum, with not brushing my hair because that’s a time consuming luxury I’d rather spend sleeping and with crushing every inevitable challenge through the miracle I hold in my arms.
21 years sounds like a nice, long time to provide for my son. Hell, it sometimes sounds scary!! (I left home at 18 but was parent-dependent for way longer; as was my hubby. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…)
Perhaps the 21 years will be longer or perhaps shorter. Either way, I intend giving every moment my best-even if my best is sometimes 40%.
My mantra for the t(c)rying times is- “This too shall pass!” My mantra for the happy times is- “Enjoy it while it lasts!”
As my bub grows, daddy and I will graduate to chauffeurs, bed and breakfast organizers, chaperons, sensor-board and ethical committee. This goes without saying.
What I truly hope though, is that we also work our way into our son’s heart as his confidante, friend (someday later, not when he’s 8!) and inspiration.
Here’s to our 21, son!