I’ve not written for a while as like most of you, what on earth do I have to talk about? 2020 has been such a bizarre year, beyond writing about the latest box-set we are watching post the monotonous bedtime routine, I have nothing to say. Honestly, we can’t even commit to one without going back to the familiarity of Modern Family for easy watching so even that would be a bust.
After a full week of newborn snuggles and head sniffing with our sensational Sybbie, the hormonal thoughts got me thinking about what I would say about the experience and it compelled me to press the WordPress symbol on my home-screen again. Side note, sod Gwyneth Paltrow’s vagina scented candle, why can’t anyone make one that smells like a newborn baby’s head?
Technically Sybil is a rainbow baby, the term given to a baby born after a miscarriage, but I haven’t thought about it particularly like this. What I have noticed though is that on reflection, I am not sure I fully breathed the whole pregnancy for fear it might happen again or fear she might not be ok at the end of it all. Nine months is an awfully long time to worry and I think it is so unfair how much it robs you of a lot of the joys of pregnancy.
Having a baby literally on the eve of the second lockdown was also extremely weird. The first few weeks are normally filled with love, pride and laughter as your precious bundle meets their nearest and dearest. A week in, I perhaps understand more why my Grandma’s generation took to their beds after the birth. Having been forced to stay home and do nothing, I can’t help but notice the aches and pains more this time and not needing to push through them for any reason has really helped me recover at my own pace. I’ve lived in my embarrassingly fluffy Dalmatian print dressing gown and not felt the need to appear to have it completely together, even when I definitely don’t and just want to be left alone to sob massive, ugly tears to the Disney Christmas advert.
A big plus though is we have all bonded as a family of five and there has been more time to spot the little things my husband does to help that make you fall in love with them a little more every-time. I don’t think I’ve washed a single bottle yet!
But and it’s a big but, as the days go by, it’s making me sad that she will most likely be a full four weeks old before she meets anyone properly. Her little face may have flashed through a myriad of familiar expression of relatives in that time and they will all be missed. Her squishy little body with her legs tucked up will be stretched out and her chubby cheeks might have slimmed down. It’s also impossible to take a photo that does her justice and we’ve taken to using random items to convey her relative size. My midget hands are worth their weight in gold right now!
So as we power on through this lockdown I just hope the end is in sight. We need each other more than ever, yet I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so far away.
The Lincolnshire Mummy 