Day One: Stupified staring at this gorgeous, perfect being we created. High on adrenaline and sharp memories of birth.
Day Two: Falling in love with her peaceful face, her snuffly expressions and her little toes. Not falling in love with sore, tattered nipples.
Day Three: Pregnancy hormones recede. Come down the stairs after a nap sobbing, “I miss her smell”. Recurrent dreams of tripping down the stairs and dropping her.
Day Four: Hooked on smelling our baby. Like a methodone substitute, we take to sniffing her clothes instead, to avoid disturbing her while she sleeps.
Day Five: Tiredness creeps in as the post-birth high tails off. I reach the peak of breastfeeding pain. A burning that curls my toes and draws sharp breaths.
Day Six: We take her on a car ride. I am a highly-strung, nervous racehorse for the entire trip, eyes darting, watching for errant drivers. I dream of accidentally leaving her outside in the cold.
Day Seven: I fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans. Just about. I feel a wave of feminist guilt for being so pleased
Day Eight: The memories of birth, only days ago so raw and overwhelming, have faded alarmingly. I can barely recall it now. I conclude it must be some sort of evolutionary, protective effect.
Day Nine: First breastfeeding in a public place. Baby is remarkably calm. Feel like a proper parent as I multi-task – eating Thai food, having an adult conversation and breastfeeding all at once.
Day Ten: Something approximating normal life resumes. Grocery store trip, drive to doctors and the gym. Fuelled by plenty of coffee. I vow to take her out more if only for the admiring glances of strangers. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s my daughter. I made her. And she’s adorable”.
Awesome, in its truest sense of the word. Congratulations!
Have you done the ‘jerk up in bed trying to figure out where the baby is’ yet?
Oh yes. I’ve done that one. I’ve also done the ‘wake up confused, realise I actually have a baby beside me’ move too