It would appear that the sole purpose of weeks one through three of a newborn’s life is to lull the unsuspecting parents that This Is How Things Are Going To Be. For the record, this isn’t how things are going to be. The rules have changed. So little Timmy-Bob slept 18 hours a day, woke only sporadically for feeding, then drifted off again for more slumber, for most of the first three weeks? NOT ANY MORE. THIS IS NOT HOW IT’S GOING TO BE FROM HERE ON IN. Aw, cute little Bimbleflop used to make that adorable little scrunched up crying face when he soiled himself whilst quietly feeding. NOT ANY MORE. HE’S GOING TO BE A CRYING, SHITTING MACHINE FROM HERE ON IN. You and Fudgella got into a nice little routine, did you, where she’d wake just once in the night, at around 4 a.m., for a nice feed, a bit of bonding time for mother and daughter, before drifting off again for three more hours? NOT ANY MORE. THAT SHIP HAS SAILED, MY FRIEND. IT’S NOW SHITTING AND CRYING AND THEN SOME MORE SHITTING FROM 3 a.m. UNTIL MIDDAY.
Yup, things change after week 3. I had the best intentions of writing a weekly update of Thing 2’s development, the highs and lows and general day-to-day life. The first three weeks were regular enough, and without too much trauma, that I found the odd hour here and there to write. NOT ANY MORE. I’m back at work now, after three weeks paternity leave, and the time I’m now at home is spent firefighting the latest arbitrary and without-precedent behavioural quirk from Thing 2. He used to love sleeping in the carrycot in the lounge. NOT ANY MORE. Despite being in the deepest of slumbers, as soon as his back touches the excessively-comfortable mattress in the base of the carrycot, that’s it, game over – it’s screaming time. It would appear that his mutant X-Man power is detecting Mamas and Papas carrycots with his back, a power of dubious merit when it comes to saving the world alongside Wolverine and Professor X, and even less so when it come to MY WIFE AND I HAVING FIVE MINUTES GODDAMN DOWNTIME IN THE EVENING.
He’s now taken to not settling after his 7 p.m. – 8 p.m. feed. Previously, he’d happily flop off after his milk, eyes rolling, tongue lolling, ready to be put down for a nice long snooze until the 11 p.m. feed. NOT ANY MORE. It’s all tears and tantrums and anger and poop (oh, so much poop). This means pacing around and shushing, hunting for a clean dummy, or making up a top-up bottle of formula, hopefully something to calm him down, or distract him long enough from his shouting so he succumbs to sleep. Given we don’t get the opportunity to get our tea until after he’s settled post-feed, it can be 9.30 p.m. or 10 p.m. before we eat. That gives us about an hour or so before the cycle starts again, with a feed, and pacing and pooping and pleading. An hour a day downtime doesn’t leave much free time, after the pots are washed, the washing’s folded, and one of us has been to the late-night Tesco for some more nappies. A quick cup of tea, maybe one of the 48 episodes of Eastenders we’ve got backlogged on the Sky+, and that’s the us-time for the day. ¡Ay caramba!.
So, in conclusion, weeks 4 and 5 are tough. You’re forced to adapt your techniques and routines to your kid’s ever-changing quirks and idiosyncrasies, in a similar fashion to having to modulate the Enterprise’s shield harmonics in response to a Borg attack. Unlike the Enterprise, though, there’s no Q to help you out in the darkest of Borg-related times. It’s just you and your Worf, sorry, wife, as much patience as you can muster, and repeated chanting of second-time parents around the world: “It’s only a phase. It’s only a phase. It’s only a phase.”
What Did You Do, Ray? 