The beauty of the baby

It's the year of the bubba! Well, in my neighbourhood anyway. A friend of mine has just had her first little one and my sister is close to popping out her first also. With these two arrivals plus some later in the year it's made me rather reminiscent (and a little teary) of the birth of my wee peanut....

Something changed the day we found out I was pregnant. I'd been suffering cramp-like pains for a couple of weeks and was bracing myself for a trip to the doctor and a diagnosis along the lines of something being wrong with my unsuspecting uterus. But nope, that Saturday morning pregnancy test proved otherwise. I wandered dewy-eyed out of the bathroom and straight into Nick's arms (once he'd stopped jumping up and down with joy) and all of a sudden life seemed rose coloured, beautiful, abundant and worthwhile. 

Pregnancy was reasonably faultless for me (minus the crippling sciatica and Little Red's rather uncomfortable obsession with using my bladder as a punching bag) and I love, love, loved my baby belly - well, up until those last few weeks when it felt like I was hauling around a boxing bag on my front and a pumpkin between my legs. I spent most of the summer in my bikini with my belly hanging out for all and sundry to see (and pat) as well unabashedly chatting away and playing Wilco, The National and Sigur Ros to my ever expanding bump through my studio headphones. Despite some minor control freak meltdowns (I can be rather highly strung), I felt pretty relaxed and at-ease most of the way through.

Those last couple of weeks were the toughest, as they are for every expectant mother. I was torn between wanting the wee one to just hurry the fudge up and get things moving and knowing that I should be enjoying the last of my pregnancy and the only time I'd have to myself for a while. Needless to say, I spent those last days waddling around in self pity, praying (much to the horror of everyone else) for rain, cold and that good ol' Wellington wind and whinging about the ten-point turns I needed to do in order to rearrange myself, my five cushions, three pillows and bag of frozen peas every night in bed. It's amazing how two short weeks can seem like an entire lifetime.

The (eventual) arrival of Little Red is something I will never, ever forget. Particularly over the last couple of weeks I've learned how to, for lack of a better word, repress the insanity of the birth and have begun to almost crave being back in the hospital - dazed, overwhelmed and drunk with love for this new, tiny creature. Only now do I realise that never again will I experience that feeling of holding my firstborn child in my arms for the first time and my God do I feel privileged to have had that. Words could never do justice the inundation of emotion that floods through you, envelops you and carries you into this incredible new time in your life. It's true when parents say that you can't remember life before your little bundle - or maybe, you can remember life beforehand but you don't recall it ever being this rewarding, enthralling, complete. Redford has been here for only three and a half months but it feels like he's been here forever and I can't imagine life without him.

With every passing day I swear I fall more and more in love with him. From the way he nuzzles into my chest when he's tired or sad and his cheeky little grins that could break the coldest of hearts to his huge blue eyes that yearn to take everything in all at once and how he chats and giggles away to me, Baby Daddy Nick, himself, anyone! My latest favourite quirk of his is the endless attempt to shove both fists in his mouth at the same time. It never quite works out the way he wants yet he continues to try....