A (A-chops, President Boobachev, The Littlest ‘Nana) is six months old. He celebrated by having toast for the first time, tripping his gag reflex, and re-eating the bit he threw up. Rock n roll, kiddo. No need to ever kowtow to social mores.
I realised that my three posts on parenting thus far have covered mostly negative aspects. Perhaps that’s because the downside of parenting seem universal (lack of sleep, excessive bodily fluids, changing emotional states), whereas the happier times seem so much more personal: everyone loves baby smiles (right?), but your baby is smiling because you’re singing that ridiculous version of that song they like and only you will do. (I had to triple check ‘you’re’, ‘your’ and ‘you’ in that sentence. I cannot wait for the day I have enough sleep to make basic grammar a breeze again.) Introducing A to music via my ridiculous versions of songs is one of the great joys of each day. Suspicious Minds is his favourite and I am disproportionately pleased by this. He’s also not averse to pawing at the condensation on the window, watching the Wellington rain trickle down, whilst listening to the Manic Street Preachers, like a pre-teen-emo.
Perhaps the downsides are easier to talk about because writing about happiness is so much harder to do. It’s so easy to slip into the trite, the twee, the smug and, ugh, who wants to read that when they’re mired in the depths of sleeplessness and Bongela? When I mentioned that I found writing about the happy times more challenging, Robin suggested that I write about the time A sneezed and farted at the same time, which he finds inexplicably hilarious. Unfortunately, I lack the writing chops to do justice to that occasion.
Or, perhaps it’s easier to focus on the negative because the first twelve weeks are so fucking difficult that it takes a while for you to lift your head up to see how far you’ve come, to see what a unique wee child you’ve created (one who laughs at ‘p’ words such as ‘plum’, ‘pear’, and more inappropriate words ending in ‘aedophile’; one who finds Temple of Love by the Sisters of Mercy unbelievably hilarious; one who talks to the bathtime scary rabbit with the giant eyes every evening). If you’re in those first twelve weeks, kia kaha to you my dears.
It gets so, so much better. Here’s to the road to happiness. And Elvis.