Winston

Every baby looks like Winston Churchill.

At least for the first few weeks, and then they gradually take on their own defining characteristics which make them less Churchillian and more, well, themselves. In the boys case, he's definitely starting to grow hair.

And equally unlike Churchill, he's starting to sleep.

Now without meaning to put the moccas on ourselves, he's been racking up the hours of nighttime slumber, including his second, third and fourth all-nighters. If you count a 6am wakeup an all nighter (and we will).

But on the weekend the lad outdid himself - if not his mums mammarian storage abilities - by sleeping for 11 hours straight. Yes.... e.l.e.v.e.n.

This, as alluded too, was too much of a stretch (scuse pun) for mums norgs, which became rock like and even "huger". If thats possible.

"Cop a feel of this!?!" said Mistress P.

Now in a past life this may well have been considered something of a come-on/golden opportunity for some "Sunday schooling", but in the post-preggas world everything is an exercise in the new and the bold. Cos they were indeed rock like: less like silicon, more like silica.

Nothing a quick mini-express didn't soften mind you.

Of course all this good sleeping had to, inevitably, come to an end. And as good ole Murphy (of "law" fame) would have it, the wide-awake late-into-the-evening grizzles and feeds demanded every 4 hours started again the very night prior to Mistress P's first day back at work.

While all were very glad to see her and thankful she was back for at least one day a week, it appeared the news hadn't traveled so fast to the personnel department. Seems the forms (in triplicate and signed by a deity) had dutifully wound its way into red tape purgatory, and hence they thought she'd been at work all week. Whooops... (lucky she actually had been doing lotsa work at home all along...)

And all the while, Dad was taking a day off and minding the tacker... their first full day together home alone.
"No wukkas", dad thought.
...right up until it came time to give the boy a feed. As warned could happen by others, Master M had forgotten (over the past 3 weeks) that bottle = boob, promptly downed tools and refused to drink a drop. Not to mention voiced his displeasure with the situation in no uncertain terms.

An hour-plus of jigging, walking and feeding (at the same time - at last a use for the windsurfin' muscles), along with lotsa yelling (mostly by the lad), soon had some 110ml transferred bottle-to-boy. Which he subsequently burped up a fair proportion of - but at least the connection had been restored. For now.

Sleep, work, rock boobs, new hair and that bit less Winston-like.
Week 11. Print this post