giovedì, dicembre 27, 2012

Motherty

Holy shit. I got eight hours of sleep last night. I'd forgotten how terrific that feels. Not in a row, mind, but this past week or so Godzilla seems to be experimenting with the idea that night time is for sleeping, and only occasionally waking up to suckle. I'm not counting on it lasting of course, but motherfuck, do I feel awesome today. For the moment, feeling human today aside, all this parenthood jazz is more or less agreeing with me, though less sleep is, I've noticed, fraying my temper. He's just so lovely. I can imagine this being very, very different if he was colicky - if his nature was different - but it isn't, so there you are.

What I'm finding observationally interesting about myself is that I've forgotten labour to the point where I can now think, to the point of planning, about doing this again. My memories of labour, up until the point where I was tearing myself open pushing Godzilla out and then staring at him, are more or less memories of memories, particularly when it comes to the pain. That's amazing to me - what a terrific capacity we have for forgetting pain - because directly afterwards, even though everything was awesome as soon as he was out (probably the main advantage to a natural birth, though one I hadn't fully appreciated before the fact), I was pretty sure I'd never fucking well do that again, given the choice.

I mean, that first night, although experiencing beautiful emotions I'd never felt before, I started thinking through the modalities of adoption, probably from China, where I think I'd be a decent candidate due to the language and trips and work associations and whatnot. Now, I'm thinking I can do this again. Maybe in two years, when I can get my body back up to scratch. I'm still loose-jointed, easily tired and fat, though my BP came back to normal pretty fast and I'm off medication.

My fatness is interesting too. It's not a LARGE fatness. It was, at first, but after almost six weeks of Godzilla sucking me dry I've shrank quite a lot - not much bigger than usual - but so soft with it. Wobbly, sort of. And my stomach is like an underinflated waterbed. Luckily no stretch marks. I guess I can thank the Mediterranean skin for that. Or maybe all the coconut butter. Dietary fat, possibly. Who knows. What a lot of trial and error all this crap is.

6 commenti:

e.f. bartlam ha detto...

You are a brave lady.

The Boy wasn't six months old before people started pestering us about the next one.

I started asking for non-refundable donations as a sign of how dedicated they were to us having a second child.

Mistress La Spliffe ha detto...

That's a terrific idea!

y.s.s. ha detto...

Just go for it.

Though (mild) word of warning. One is easy (honest, it is). Two is hell on earth. If you manage to manage 2 (and the fear of more - which will, I promise you be real) then you'll find the three or more easier than one. The older ones look after the younger ones and act as goffers. Moral: have 3 or more but suspend critical faculty during two-wain-ness.

Mistress La Spliffe ha detto...

I hear you and I've always wanted three but I think we're too old and poor.

y.s.s. ha detto...

We were always 'too poor'.
But we have also always been irresponsible.
You get there in the end.

Mistress La Spliffe ha detto...

Twins do run in the family . . . Now there's a vision of purgatory.