Baby · Motherhood

When The Newborn Phase Is Over 

Baby Seb is almost eight weeks old, but I planned to write a post when he turned six weeks. That’s supposed to be the end of the newborn phase. Trying to get through the first six weeks is supposed to be the hardest part, and then you go to your six-week-check, find out how beautiful and fat your baby is, and get the all-clear from your doctor because everything’s healed from giving birth. For the first couple of weeks, Seb had been a dream baby. He was happy to sleep in his bassinet for two or three hours at a time during the day and went a good six hours over night. He wasn’t clingy at all, which I loved, because I never felt touched out. I loved all the time I spent holding him because it was such a rare occasion.

I had my six-week check, and Sebastian was lovely and chunky. He puts on about 250 grams a week and he’s perfectly healthy. But in the last few weeks leading up to the appointment I had had an increasing amount of problems – mostly lower back, hip, and pelvic pain, due to what I suspected was a prolapsed uterus and separated pelvis. I could feel a gap down the middle of my pubic bone where the ligaments had stretched in preparation for birth. Sebastian hadn’t been sleeping as well as usual and fussing more during the day which wasn’t like him. I put it down to the week five “wonder week” that hit him a bit late.

Then my mum visited us for a week with seven kids in tow {my youngest siblings} and the day she left, I came down with a cold and was coughing and sneezing all over the place. Sandpaper throat, headache, etc. Both Darcy and Ronan came down with the sniffly bit and Ronan woke me up a lot coughing. I was too sick to get caught up on the laundry and housework I had neglected while we had guests, and then I went to the emergency department for the first time in my life with what seems to be the worst bladder infection ever. Things pretty much went downhill from there.

I cried over spilled milk. One night Ronan stood next to me while I made his bottle, and he put the bottle top on, but didn’t screw it on properly, so when he tried to drink he spilled it all over himself (and the floor). I literally burst into tears while I cleaned it up.  I cried because he had been so proud of himself for making the bottle and it was so cute and pathetic and sad and waaaahhhhh…..

I’ve lost interest in food and never feel hungry, just survive off Tim Tams and whatever my husband makes for dinner. I don’t want to eat anything unless it’s sweet. I don’t feel like water unless there’s Powerade crystals in there. I’ve never craved sugar before, ever. I wake up early and don’t go back to sleep (normally I’m a very late sleeper) and don’t dleep  during the day and go to bed at 11pm or 12am or whenever Seb finally drifts off.

I’m tired down to my bones, the way it feels when you spend all day doing hard physical labour. I constantly feel like I’ve been kicked in the groin, even though I was fine during the pregnancy. I put Ronan to bed with toothpaste in his hair two nights in a row because I didn’t have the energy to give them baths. Giving two toddlers a bath while holding or feeding a newborn is no easy task. Spmetimes I consider going shopping by myself so I get time away but there’s no point if I just wander around the store staring into space.

Seb has given up sleeping properly during the day and is catnapping in 20-minute shifts in between crying in my arms and wanting to be awake and entertained but not being old enough to play with toys. For some reason he doesn’t like his brothers bashing him up, either.

It’s turned into freezing autumn temperatures all of a sudden and I’ve been lost under overwhelming feelings of nostalgia coupled with PTSD-style flashbacks to last winter when I had morning sickness. I eat something I ate then, I listen to a song I listened to then, I look at something I wore back then, and I feel sick to my stomach without even realising that it’s reminding me of when I had all-day pregnancy sickness.

The most exercise I do at the moment is lifting bottles of flavoured milk out of the bottle shelf of the fridge. I can’t remember the last time my husband and I talked about anything other than groceries or what we should have for dinner. I want to write my novel but I barely have the brain power to come up with ways to hide Tim Tams from my kids as I eat them. I wore pj tops three days in a row this week because none of my clothes are clean and I only have a handful of stuff that fits me anyway. I currently weigh more than I did when I was nine months pregnant with my first child.

Tonight I asked my husband if I could do something productive with my life in the half hour between kids shows finishing on ABC4 and My Kitchen Rules starting at 7:30. He didn’t think so.

Today we had to take Seb in for his routine hearing check and I *had* to get the boys clean, even if it meant leaving Sebastian lying on a couple blankets on the bathroom floor screaming his head off. Ronan choked on his own snot, gagged, and vomited up the watermelon he had for lunch into the bathwater. I scrubbed toothpaste out of his hair under the running water and was just thankful it was only toothpaste and not nail polish. I bought a bottle of beautiful sheer pink polish a few weeks ago as my go-to manicure, in an attempt to look more elegant and put together and so on. Darcy stole the bottle, unscrewed the lid, did his toenails and Ronan’s, and poured the rest of the bottle over our couch and armchair. It took me about a week to notice the stain on the couch because it’s such a hideous floral pattern that hides dirt like nothing else.

There’s a hole in that couch that Ronan can stand in if he slides his feet down between the cushions.

We could do with a new couch.

I don’t really know the point of this post. I just know I’m tired, it’s cold, my socks stick to the kitchen floor, and I’m still waiting for an opportunity to make hot cross buns for Easter. At this rate, maybe I’ll be ready to make some next year….

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