My Heart Belongs to Daddy

It has been my turn to host my post-natal group lunch today – a collective noun for this many babies is evidently a Piddle – and I have just waved off the last mother. Their offspring were all immaculately bibbed-up, and the only baby to puke on the carpet was Harry. I lay no blame: the carpet is buggered anyway and besides, when you have to let it go, you have to let it go. I re-discovered this fact with some reluctance at 4.30am yesterday morning when Harry’s usual dawn chorus of chirrups, squawks, head-bangings and subsequent wails ushered me gently into the new day and rising nausea. It rapidly became apparent to me that I was inescapably going to bid farewell to what remained of last night’s dinner, so the child was foisted unceremoniously onto his father for the duration.

Hairy Farmer Hubby was feeling the imperative twin summoning of a delightfully sunny morning and the alluring open fields, and was markedly displeased by this intolerable turn of events. He returned at intervals throughout the morning to sweep an impatient eye over my prostrate form and enquire with barely concealed frustration whether I would ‘like him back yet?’ I managed to lift my head from the pillow long enough to bark an emphatic and profane negative, and I believe Harry spent the morning with his paternal grandmother. At 3.30pm, having managed to keep bowel and tummy contents torpid for two whole hours, I caved in to spousal pressure and accepted delivery of one child, who was fresh from a nap and ready to partay. At 4.30pm, following a sudden and ugly trip to the downstairs toilet, the sheer impossibility of twitching an unnecessary limb, let alone hefting and consoling a tear-streaked (you LEFT me, Mummy), arms-lifted-in-imploring-fashion child, was forcibly borne in on me.

Like every delivery driver who has made a drop he knows is not quite kosher, John had instantaneously scuttled off at high speed, and was now industriously spraying crops some miles away. His mother had gone to visit her mother. My mother was at work. The Delightful Next Doors were both at work. John’s father belongs to his father’s generation in many respects, and despite his daughter and twin boys, has never been left alone with a baby in his entire life. This only left my father. Who, bless his heart, offered before I could even ask, jumped straight into his car and bowled out into rush-hour traffic that I know worries him badly these days following a nasty car accident. And I know he still feels rubbish from the 6-week dose of viral nasty that Harry gave him previously. He came anyway, braving the thin line between sickness and health that only the hygiene-hand-gel determines.

Child fell contentedly into Gramps’ arms and proceeded to gurgle happily downstairs, whilst Mummy retreated to gurgle most unhappily upstairs. The lower floor escaped with only some minor collateral milk-damage to a shirt. I pass over the state of things upstairs.

By 10pm I was eating biscuits. By midnight I felt sufficiently confident to return my bucket (don’t ask) to the cupboard. I woke this morning dehydrated, shaky, 4 pounds lighter (little Yay!) and enormously cheerful about my upswing in health. Continence makes me happy.

Advertisements

4 Responses

  1. Yuck, I hope you’re feeling better.

    I remember one evening when TBB was around 6 months old, sitting in the backyard on a plastic chair with him on my lap, vomiting to the left and right, while he took centre.

  2. Groan. You poor, poor girl.
    I’m good, cheers. 5lb lighter now. Very cheerful about this!

  3. […] I have heard tell of a phenomenon known as a Hair-Holding Hubby. Apparently they exist. Well, they don’t bloody exist around here. Upon realising that I had departed into the ensuite, Hubby enquires laconically how I […]

  4. […] good at wearing big-girl panties. There is also the secondary consideration that John is spectacularly bad at hand-holding, being fairly impervious to discomfort himself. He is even worse at kicking his […]

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: