H steals my food
Before having H I was quite tidy, a bit squeamish about sick, snot and toilet stuff and I had some pride in my appearance. I always knew having a baby would change my life but I didn’t really think about these aspects of my life. Don’t read on if you’re squeamish or pregnant…
I go to bed in the evenings leaving the dishes in the sink (or worse – on the table), clothes in piles all over the house and books and toys strewn across the living room. Sometimes I don’t even know where my slippers are. And I can still sleep.
Our latest way of encouraging H to sleep when he’s tired is a stroll around the village in the sling, followed by some milk while still in the sling which usually sends him to sleep (I’m sure that’ll change soon though). Because I don’t take him out of the sling till he’s asleep, and then I go to bed with him, I have to have my pyjamas on. So every evening I put my pyjama top on before our walk. I change my trousers once he’s asleep – that’s something I have perfected quite well – but I go out in my pyjamas. Under a jacket. And we walk past the same houses every evening. I just hope people don’t sit by their windows looking out at that time.
I no longer moisturise. I’ve never been the sort to spend hours in the bathroom getting ready every day but I always moisturised after a shower. Now my showers are two minutes long and I get dressed while still damp. Yuck. It’s not helping the massive patches of dry, rough skin I have on my knees and tops of my feet from crawling after H all day.
I examine nappy contents.
Yes, I do. I get quite excited by it and I’ll describe it to anyone who’ll listen. Which means P or Granny. P doesn’t like it. Granny is a bit better at listening to my descriptions. I didn’t think I’d ever be interested in that stuff. And at the moment, as it’s only happening every few days, I am over the moon when it happens. I think that’s enough detail on that one.
I remove dried bogeys from H’s nose with my bare fingers. Yucky. I’ve always hated snot-related things and here I am pulling them out as if they were just crumbs down his front. And, of course, they get examined. Vile.
I sometimes go out without brushing my hair. Or even looking in the mirror. Mirrors are there so I can admire my beautiful son. I just have to hope that all other people are too busy looking at H to notice me.
I have to drink in secret. If I’m really thirsty there’s no point in having a drink with H watching me, he’ll just grab it and share it. When Granny comes round or P comes home I can safely disappear into the kitchen for a nice big glug of water. And I might even sneak a quick bite of a snack while I’m there.
I can go all day without going to the loo. Bad, I know. But at least being a teacher trained me for that. And it’s only going to get worse. The few times I do go with H in tow, he pulls himself up by the toilet seat and attempts to put his hands down the bowl. Needless to say, cleaning the toilets is one thing that does get done here.
I am always covered in scratches and bruises. Partially because I’m so bad at cutting his nails, partially because he’s so strong. I get a dead arm at least once a day and once a night from H lying on it. And I can’t move it as he wakes up.
Nothing is my own. All my food gets taken from me, and then he offers it me as if he’s the one sharing. I love it, but it makes eating difficult. My bed space, bath time and shower time are no longer my own. My body certainly isn’t my own as now he just pulls down my top when he feels like a drink. I’m not complaining. I love it all. I love all the little scratches, the thirst, the frightful state I look and the house I can’t invite anyone into. They are all the little hallmarks of my H, and I wouldn’t change any of them.