When the first born is hungry, his eyes glaze over, his tongue pops out of his mouth and he begins to smack his lips and make strange sucking sounds. This doesn’t last for very long; after a minute or so, he starts to shout and wave his hands and legs about, demanding immediate attention.
Just like his father.
He does like his food, though. He eats in the morning and he eats in the evening. If he had the physical capacity, I think that he would eat around the clock. In the middle of the night, hunger rouses him from the deepest of sleep. He starts to suck the air in his sleep, growling and flailing his arms about. For a moment or two, one can actually watch an engrossing battle between two seemingly implacable forces: sleep and hunger. Of course hunger wins. He rouses himself, and the rest of the house, then clamps himself, limpet like, to Dr M’s breast until he is satisfied.
Random observation: I rather think this breast feeding wheeze was thought up by some indolent man, eager to avoid night time feed duty*. Not that I am complaining; as observed a couple of posts ago, I remain happily unaware of his nocturnal activities (and long may that last!)
Actually, that is not, strictly speaking, true. A couple of nights ago, he woke up at four in the morning and was determined to play. Usually, I can escape responsibility for any of his actions because he cries briefly, clamps himself to the source of all goodness, and sucks himself into a stupor.
This time, he cried for much longer than usual. Eventually, I roused myself, knowing that only the deaf or a liar could feign sleep in such conditions. Slipping smoothly into ‘new-dad’ role, I offered, insincerely, to take control for a little while.
Dr M accepted. This was not part of the script.
The first born likes his reflection (vanity – again, just like his father. At least, he has something to be vain about…). So I propped myself up in front of the bedroom mirror and allowed him to amuse myself, whilst I idly wondered whether it was possible to sleep standing up (the answer, incidentally, is yes. But please do not try this at home, particularly if you are in charge of a small child – your child will not thank you for this).
Usually, however, I am only vaguely aware of the night time goings-on, which suits me fine.
It is remarkably difficult to leave them all day most days to go to work (or, in the interests of accuracy, I should say go to pretend to work), and I would cheerfully swap the drudgery of the office for all the sleepless nights he could possibly give me.
But I ramble. What does he first born actually do?
He eats. Copiously. Repeatedly.
He sleeps. Not quite in the quantities that one may wish, but…
He farts. The boy could fart for all Africa. You can always tell when he is about to let rip, because he goes red in the face and begins to wriggle his little bottom before…this is particularly fun when he lets loose a corker on a visitor’s lap. The look of shock/surprise/awe is always one to treasure.
He smiles. The most beautiful, engaging, heart-melting toothless smile that one could ever hope to see.
He dances. Honestly. The other night, I found out that he likes ‘Silent Morning’ by Noel (an old electro hit from the late 80s). We rocked to it together for half an hour. The down side to this serendipitous discovery was that he then refused to go to sleep until 1 in the morning. Memo to self: no loud music and dancing late at night. That comes later…
(He dances better than his father, incidentally. He hasn’t quite managed the hand foot co-ordination business yet, but that’s only to be expected. He is only five weeks old, after all. Me, on the other hand…)
He can say the word ‘Daddy’
Ok, the last one isn’t true. And, in any case, what are the odds on his first word being ‘Daddy’? But one can dream…
Dr M took him to Baby Clinic to be weighed last week, and we finally got to find out where all the milk has been going. He is a big baby. A very big baby, actually. I forget the exact numbers but he is longer and heavier than most babies of his age. I feel very proud.
I like playing the part of the proud parent. Before the first born came along, I could never quite understand how new mums and dad could talk about their offspring ad infinitum (or ad nauseum, if small children are not your thing). Now I can bore with the best of them. I have actually caught eyes glazing over a couple of times, whilst I regale my captive audience with tales about bowel movements and night time feeds and the like. Of course I ignored them.
Obligatory poncy, (allegedly) highbrow digression: The political theorist Hannah Arendt liked the idea of birth and new beginnings. ‘Birth (she wrote) means the arrival of a new being that would, or could, say or do things no one had said or done before. The appearance of such a being might move others to speak and act in new ways as well’ (Italics mine).
If I can laugh at my son’s farts, then I haven’t been moved to act in a new way myself. Not yet, anyway. There’s hope for all of us yet.
The first born is six weeks old.
*This is a joke, obviously. Breast is best. Particularly if you lack access to potable water or adequate sanitation. And if you eat healthily and look after yourself. And only up until a point. It isn’t healthy to breastfeed a ten year old, whatever you may think. But that is a matter for another time and another place…
