Taking a quick glance in the mirror in between trying to clean the latest batch of baby milk reflux from Astala and running to the bedroom to pick him up where he’s shrieking angrily because I’ve not carried him for all of two minutes (in baby time this is more like two hours, I’ve come to know), I shudder at my reflection. Four days unwashed hair, dark circles under my eyes that tell the tale of night feeds and 6am starts and a t-shirt that may have once been blue but is now covered in so much spit up milk it resembles a sad, grey dish rag, I’m not exactly fresh as a daisy.
But as I pick up the red-faced, screaming little baby who seems so small in my huge new bed, he immediately stops crying. He snuggles his soft, downy head onto my chest and smiles up at me whilst emitting a soft, gurgly coo. I wouldn’t trade the situation for all the hours of sleep and fresh shirts in the world, I am officially in love.
Of course, it helps that I have the cutest baby in the world. Yes, I’m biased but I’ve never seen such a flawless, absolutely beautiful little face. And the smiles – don’t get me started. Anyone who’s seen my Instagram and Twitter feeds will already be very well acquainted with my son’s gummy grin, as I literally haven’t stopped posting photos of it since he started at two months. Now at a little over 12 weeks old, as he becomes more sure of himself, they’re just getting bigger and cuter.
Honestly, you’d think I was crazy if you saw the faces I pull to extract those delicious little giggles and heart melting ear-to-ear grins. Tom’s even worse than me, I can hear him babbling away in baby-speak to Astala in this weird high pitched voice from the basement of our house.
Motherhood is a gift, I knew it would be but at the same time I didn’t. I never knew my full potential as a woman until I saw the fruits of my womb in front of me, in all his bald, chubby glory. He’s the image of me as a baby, but sometimes he looks at me and looks exactly like Tom.
Yes, I’m more exhausted than I even knew was possible, and yes, I’m waging a never-ending war against dirty nappies, but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. When he falls asleep on my chest and holds on to me so tightly in his sleep, it’s as if I was a lifeboat carrying him to safety, so small and vulnerable – it is the purest kind of bliss I’ve ever known.
Another exciting event on the horizon aside from Astala’s next burp is my wedding to his dad, Tom. I’m not going to give away too much but I had my dress fitting recently, along with my bridesmaids and their dresses, and it was sheer perfection. I have another fitting coming up soon as I’m going to have a change at the wedding. Why have one amazing dress when you can have two?! The more the merrier when it comes to amazingly beautiful wedding gowns I say, they’re all invited to wrap their gauzy whiteness all over me!
Thankfully I have refrained from the Big Fat Gypsy Weddings style nightmare I wanted as a little girl. I used to force a long-suffering Pixie to follow me around the house, holding the train of a white ball gown resembling a huge meringue. It was a dress my mother had kindly provided for my six-year-old self, in it I solemnly paraded the corridors for literally hours whilst Pixie, dressed in my dad’s suit, followed dutifully behind. Now as adult, I have instead opted for very romantic and delicate look, fitting in with the aesthetic of the wedding, which is old fashioned, pared down and vintage-y.
Tom’s suit is apparently going to be beautiful and I know the designer, who’s made suits for Tom before and totally gets his unique vision, will make it wonderful. I’m looking forward to my hen do too, which my bridesmaids (made up of my sisters and three best friends) have informed me will be a very traditional, L-plates and tacky pink cowboy hats affair.
However, at the moment I’m focusing on trying to escape from what seems to be THE WORST ENGLISH SUMMER EVER. I never thought I’d have the heating up full blast with four jumpers on and the baby braving the elements in a snow suit in July. Come on sun, do your job! Thank God for the annual family holiday to a little coastal village in Majorca. It’s a lovely place that we’ve gone to ever since I was a child and which actually has a real summer instead of being the wet and frozen tundra that London seems determined to become. I’ve already been packed and ready for two months now, even though we don’t leave until august!
I even went bikini shopping the other day, though to be honest someone should have warned me beforehand that trying to imagine what a bikini looks like whilst held against a body that’s covered by a baby in a front-facing sling is not the most accurate of images.
I’ve got to go run upstairs now as Astala is waking up from his nap and Tom’s washing a very stinky Parper, our faithful golden retriever who’s favourite activity is lying in mud.
I can’t wait to snuggle with Tom and the little man in our new massive bed, it’s an eight feet wide by eight feet long monstrosity from an online store called The Big Bed Company. It’s heaven! Perfect for us to safely co-sleep with baby in as he tends to like to lie diagonally across and our double bed just wasn’t doing it’s job anymore. Now, back to the frontline of the never ending battle against the dirty nappy…