Six weeks. Six weeks old. Six weeks since she slip-slopped out into the lukewarm pool. Six weeks of feeding and pacing and shushing and swaying. The visitors had been and gone, Sal was back at work after paternity leave and annual leave, and I was eager to get out and do some baby stuff and meet some mums.
There was 'Mummy and Baby Pilates', 'Baby Rhyme Time', 'Stay and Play' sessions and 'Baby Massage'. So each morning, at the allotted time - usually about 10am - I'd try and break into the feedy/sleepy/pooey cycle and bundle little Luna and myself into the car. Sometimes we'd make it there in one go. Sometimes after three or four minutes in the car, hunger would set in, and we'd pull up for a bit of milky. Sometimes we'd arrive on time. Sometimes...
So we'd arrive, Luna snug in the sling, and peering inquisitively over the edge and me, eager to socialise and exercise and generally do something other than rock and feed and change. And things would get started. Stretching or singing or massaging. And after approximately ten minutes, Luna would be tired. Not just tired. Exhausted. In fact too tired to sleep even. Well, she might just be able to sleep, if I were to wander around a very quiet place with her in the sling for an hour or two.
I'd look around at the other babies. The happy babies playing and giggling. The sleepy babies...well sleeping peacefully in their car seats. And I'd scoop up baby and baggage and we'd head home. One day we'd do some baby stuff and meet some mums. But for now, at six weeks, we'd stay at home and stick with feeding and sleeping and pooing.
Article: by 18th May 2014