"Don't know what all the fuss is about, this sh**s easy..." Are the words I mumbled while I sipped a freshly ground coffee with my feet up after the first week of being a new dad.
I was still fairly fresh faced and smug at the thought I had it nailed.
Sleep, wakes up, feed (by that I mean hand to Tash), no need to wind due being breastfed, lay him back down, back to sleep, continue on with my day. Don't know what people were moaning about, one night I slept for 10 hours. He was a lovely little bundle of quiet joy - with ginger hair that still continues to confuse me. In fact the only thing stressing me out was that my router was on the fritz so couldn't watch Netflix.
I was on paternity leave and this felt a bit like a holiday, the beginning of week two rolled around, he was awake a little more, had a touch of jaundice making him minion-esque (thinking about it, maybe Essex isn't suffering from a fake tan epidemic, but in fact an outbreak of jaundice?) and a tad more whingy. But ultimately, no complaints and I got to catch up on my favourite TV shows, take strolls in the park and lunch like a housewife. I've never eaten this well, in fact I now have a more noticeable muffin top (it's more like a Victoria Sponge rather than muffin) thankfully dad bodies are in - yep, i was as shocked as you to hear this is 'a thing'.
Bloody hell did I regret saying all of that. By the end of week two, week one was now a distant memory.
Oh right so now you don't like your mosses basket anymore. Wrong shade of white is it sir?! Oh the sleeping bag has teddies on it and not transformers. Oh so you only like being held in someone's arms combined with a gentle sway, oops sorry too fast, how's that? Oh thats the wrong brand of milk. Now I know when people said it was tough I now knew they were right.
Sleep had gone from resembling the instructions in the countless books we were given to making his own rules, just because, well, he can. He just wouldn't sleep for very long - apart from if you played him Fleetwood Mac, good taste I guess. But if I hear that bloody Rumours album one more time...
His breathing was like something from a horror film, resulting in frantic googling and panicked midnight calls to the midwife, I'll leave that for another post.
In a desperate attempt to find a solution we went and bought a Cocoonababy, which now looking back on it is an over priced piece of foam, however, in the moment I considered it the best invention and immediately demanded the inventor be recommended for a Nobel prize. The minute we laid him down on it, it was like he'd received a knock out punch from Mayweather, he was out for the count and snoring - he's so cute, when he's asleep. Fast forward a few weeks, he doesn't like it anymore and it's been tossed aside now like the toy with the broken squeaker from Toy Story.
His poop schedule went from regular to constipated (for those parents out there, what is that black poop that has the consistency of tar about? We gave up trying to wash the sticky mess out of the babygrows and put them straight in the bin). He marked the transition period with an arse explosion up the white wall that I just painted - not so 'Brilliant White' anymore and now more latte looking.
After a few weeks our bodies stopped fighting the need to sleep, accepted it and I became more like an Uber at the end of a busy night; empty, looking run down and covered in puke. But at least I had it nailed again!
Until 'wait till he finds his lungs!'
What on earth does that mean? Makes no bloody sense, might as well say can't have your cake and eat it, because that's nonsense as well, of course you can have a cake and eat it, Greggs accountants will agree with me - not because they're fat, but because they know their profit margin.
A week later, as I had my head under the duvet with my fingers in my ears at 4am threatening to move into a Holiday Inn (I'm budget conscious) I knew exactly what this meant. Said lungs had been located and were being used effectively.
We had discussed using a dummy, and during my 'I must buy everything' moment a pack of dummies was added to the shopping basket. Hesitant because Google had informed us that you shouldn't give them a dummy until 6 weeks we decided in our hour of need to place it into his wailing mouth.
What was this made of? How has this created such a difference? Quick stop questioning it and just enjoy the moment.
It was definitely created at the same time as the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom. It would explain his reaction when 'his precious' falls out.
I scribbled out CocoonaBaby inventor and replaced it with Lord Dummy.
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