Didn’t I say I was going to run out of time? It was as though the universe was trying to tell me something, but here I was, thinking I had weeks up my sleeve, to relax in my roundness as much as I could and watch endless hours of guilt-free day time TV (because
not so secretly, I actually love Dr Phil) before a little person came into my life.
Well, needless to say, the relaxation didn’t happen, nor did Dr Phil. On 9 October at 3:12pm AEST, a little man decided that cramped quarters were no longer his style and pushed his way into the world, a full three weeks early.
Say hi to baby Samuel.
At 8 days old, Sam has taken over our world in the best way humanly possible. From the moment they lay his little blue-ish body on me (and I bawled my hormonal eyes out) I just knew. I can’t put into words what I knew, but something miraculous fell into place and as cliché as it sounds, I suddenly felt complete. All right, gag away. But you know, it’s true. Just sayin’.
I’ve had one sleepless night but Sam’s given me about 4 (broken) hours per night otherwise, which I seem to be surviving on so far. Either I’m more sleep resilient than I give myself credit for (given I normally indulge in at least 8 hours a night) or at some point in the not too distant future, I will be face planting dead asleep in my lunch. We’ll see.
He’s not in any routine as yet, he eats and sleeps and poops as he pleases. But we’re not rushing. I’m loving every minute I spend with him and though his recognition skills are preeeetty patchy this young, when he locks eyes with me for that microsecond and he knows I’m his mama, everything in the world becomes perfect.
Until the next yellow mustard splatter poo nappy.