The Grass Is Always Greener
Yesterday I took my girls swimming and while we were in the changing room, a lady came in carrying her 10-week-old baby. Although to the uninitiated (and my children) all babies are cute, as someone who’s had a few of them it takes more than a windy gurn to turn my head, but little Jamie was particularly cuddlesome. Just the right amount of squidge and a big gummy, dribble-free smile, he watched the comings and goings of the ladies changing room with wide-eyed wonder. The girls were smitten and I confess there was a moment, as I gave him a cuddle (it would’ve been rude not to), when I thought “maybe I’d do it again”. After all, my youngest is now 10 and although her siblings sometimes refer to her as ‘the golden child’ she isn’t always as easygoing as she once was. So for a split-second, inhaling his new baby smell while my 10-year-old grumbled about the wet floor and cold surroundings, I could possibly have been persuaded to swap. His mum, busily working on getting her two other young sons out of their wet swimwear, looked mildly horrified when I said this was the easiest time - she’s been looking forward to her boys becoming more independent.
Looking back, there haven’t been many times with my children when I’ve wished the time away or hoped for them to move quickly to the next stage of their development, but I do remember one particular occasion when my youngest daughter was about 10 weeks old. I’d decided to venture out to a local shopping mall and in order to fit around her newly established 3 hourly ‘feed/wind & change/sleep’ cycle I’d planned the journey with military precision. Having fed and changed her, I knew I had a one-hour window to make the 30 minute journey, park the car and find a quiet seat in a cafe before her next feed - plenty of time - and then afterwards I’d have an hour, maybe even an hour and a half, to wander around the shops. The traffic was light so I arrived as expected but then had trouble finding a parking space. It was hot, I was getting bothered and by the time I got to the cafe I was feeling pressure (literally and figuratively) to feed so I hastily ordered, found a quiet corner and scooped my daughter out of her pram. I probably gave an audible sigh of relief as she started feeding and I relaxed. Settling into my seat and taking a sip of coffee, I looked around the bustling cafe and my gaze settled on another mother, sitting with her older (maybe 8 or 10 year-old) child. As I watched them having a lovely, grown-up conversation and thought that my daughter would be that size all too soon, I felt my baby girl move slightly, stop sucking and then burp. The sensation that followed, forever etched on my memory as time suddenly slowed down, was of everything she had just swallowed gushing out with her wind and slowly spreading across my chest, down my stomach, soaking through my underwear and dress. As I sat there in a puddle of regurgitated milk, considering my options, I looked again at the child and her mum enjoying their time together and realised it couldn’t come soon enough!
Baby or biggie? I’d love to know your thoughts so please leave a comment in the box below!