Wills has entered into his fourteenth week of life and is seemingly celebrating by ensuring everything gets a generous coating of sick and/or drool. On Wednesday my outfit selection was ‘Whatever has the least amount of sick on it.’ Clean clothes seem to be a thing of the past. It is a mixture of frustration and heartbreak when you finally manage to get yourself washed and dressed only to be thrown up on. Getting ready was something I truly took for granted pre-baby. The good old days when ‘getting ready’ involved showering, shaving, moisturising, nice outfit, accessories, make up and a hair do of some description. Now if I’m lucky I’ll get wet and pull on something clean(ish) and still look like a dishevelled husk of the woman I once was.
Wills has an abundance of clean clothes, because I actually make time to wash his things. And the boy drools so much he is on at least three bibs a day and a change of top. Friday I got his vest and trousers on, he threw up so I had to change his vest, then as I was putting his top on he found what must has been the only fluid left in his body and deposited on the fresh-from-the-dryer top. I cried. Wills giggled and I felt ashamed that I’d let something that he can’t control make me feel so frustrated.
Don’t misunderstand, I have never been one of those pristine women who always looks composed and immaculate (I envy them) but I don’t feel much like me anymore in that I don’t feel ‘me’ exists. I am ‘we’, because my little boy needs me to do the thinking for him – does he need food/changing/cuddles? Is he tired? Should I sing to him? Is he okay? Is he safe? Am I screwing him up already? Gone are the days when I pleased myself, that’s no longer an option. So when I’m trying to resemble an attractive functioning human being, after watching fistfuls of my hair clog the plughole and finding clothes that disguise/hide/pull in my sagging tum a smattering of various bodily fluids makes me rather emotional.
In other news:
Date with hubs next Friday, the first since Wills was born. Beyond excited.
Captain has been walking back and forth across my keyboard in a desperate bid for attention.
Wills is now gripping things. This is cute when he is holding onto my jumper, excruciating when he has a handful of my bingo wings. (That’s the fat saggy bit at the top of arms, that hangs down a bit, more so in old ladies.)