11 months with Bubba Boy...

11 months ago he burst forth from my body, and with him, a tidal wave of amniotic fluid and a river of misery. He was beautiful right from the start – that copper-coloured hair was something special, those black-brown eyes that were never blue, not even for a day. But he made me angry, because he wouldn’t do what babies were supposed to do, he wouldn’t do any of those basic, baby-ish things, and I used to ask why why why why why why over and over in my head. I’d be shushing and patting him in his cot while the other kids cried for me and struggled to wipe their pooey bums in the bathroom at the other end of the house, where I’d locked them away in an attempt to block out their happy noises – and to shield them from my growing rage. My beautiful, snuggly, overtired koala baby would not sleep in the car. He only screamed there, sometimes for an hour or more, and never to the point of exhaustion. He would not sleep in a pram. He would not suck on a dummy, or drink my milk from a bottle. He wanted me me me me every single moment of every single day. And I didn’t know how to break myself into three working parts. The anger, and the guilt I felt about being so completely dominated by him, and the guilt I felt about getting so angry at him, and the weariness, and the empty feeling that you feel when each second of the day is seen as one less second you need to endure… I remember it all and I putting it all here, even though it hurts to recall it. I stayed away from this blog because I couldn’t bear to face the words on a screen to cement it all and take it from the safe space of my brain… I can feel that stinging behind my eyes when I flick through the montage of his first few months. It was all grey, grey, grey, with bursts of sunlight every so often. A day when he surprisingly slept more than 20 minutes in a row… The first time he smiled at me… The way he looked when he slept on me in the Baby Bjorn, and how I was able to ignore the pain in my back, because he was beautiful and he was at peace. A friend showed me a photo of the inside of a mattress the other day – it looks like grey felt, with lots of tiny flecks of colour throughout. That was Judd’s first 6 months. And I wish it hadn’t been like that, but at least the colour was there… I guess. My koala boy is now nearly walking, and really talking – Mum, Dad, ta, “gog” (dog). His smile is this funny, tooth bearing, dazzling expression. His face is still dimpled, but overall he’s a little more slender than he once was. His feet are like soft pink balls with sausage toes attached, and his bottom is speckled with cellulite. He still doesn’t do what he’s “meant” to. He wakes up 1,345,612 times every night, and up until last week he was usually fed back to sleep. Now he’s only fed twice a day, but, boy, does he make those two events count. “Do you want booby Judd?” “Mmm!! Nyum, nyum, nyum…” He crawls over to me and his eyes are all huge and happy and he sniffs and licks his lips. And then he’s on, and he’s in his own little world, our little world, and I kiss his toes and stroke the hair that’s starting to grow into flicky layers around his ears, and I just adore him. We adore each other. His favourite song is “Locked Out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars. His favourite food is chocolate, but he also loves cold meat and bread. His favourite people, other than his parents, are probably Poppy and Otis. His favourite pastime is holding his penis! And his favourite moment of the day, other than the feeds, is the three-in-a-tub bathtime. I really need a photo of that.