the first days - sleepless

*This was written three years ago - but I never got around to posting it. Recent research I've been doing around birth and breastfeeding (although a millennia ago in Constantinople) for one of my Master's subjects had me going through old birth posts and I realised this one got lost in the newborn haze.

More tired than I ever remember being, I push the perspex crib containing my hours old baby and follow the midwife from the birth suite to my room. It's the small hours of the morning and I'm woozy, confused after the birth. She hurries on ahead and I lose her. The corridor seems to stretch forever and I didn't see which door she turned into. I stand still, lost, wondering if I should just start peering into all the rooms. It seems so much effort. I'll just stand for a moment. 

After a time the midwife returns for me, and I follow her into a room with two empty beds.  I park my newborns' crib beside the bed next to the window and fall onto it. Every cell in my body seems weighted towards the floor, gravity pulling me earthward. 

My labor was quick, but I hadn't slept for twenty hours prior, the patch up after the birth took hours and the official documents say I lost three litres of blood in the somewhat traumatic post-birth. The one that involved the doctor shoving her fist into my innards without anaesthetics. That one. 

I am so tired. I ease into the pillow. The blissful crisp sheets. I love the familiarity of the hospital bed, the mattress protectors, the special easy-clean pillows. Bliss. I am sooo tired. 

But although I've carefully placed my baby next to me, she's looking away from me. Obviously I want to drink in her tiny, perfect face as I finally tumble into sleep. 

Slowly, I jolt upright and stumble around the bed to move her to the other side so I can see her face. (Not that her little ear and soft black hair isn't perfect either.) 

Uh oh. The movement sets my post-birth blood gushing faster. I feel it seeping beyond the bulky maternity pad. Reluctantly, I head to the bathroom and yep, it's gone through the mega-pad, onto the oversized undies and stained my pj bottoms. 

Weighted, robotic, I stumble out to find clothes in my suitcase, a bag for the stained ones, and jerkily change. By the time I'm clean, my baby is stirring, her little mouth pursing for milk, I pick her up - so tiny, so light - I savour her newborn smell. In bed with me, she drinks eagerly. 

Holy hell. That hurts. With my first baby the afterpains weren't that bad. With number four it's intense cramping. I breathe through it as she feeds. I admire the perfect line of her lashes, her tiny fingers, her little nose, her dark hair. 

The feeding increases the bleeding. And damn it, after I put her down again I need to change again.

When my little one falls back into sleep I  return to the bathroom. I need new clothes again. This time I use two pads. I stumble back to bed. I'm hungry sooo hungry. When's breakfast? I check my bag.

In hormonal craziness I have vegan chocolate that tastes horrific. Why? Why would I do that. I also have yogurts that I forgot to refrigerate. I eat the horrible vegan chocolate as I'm dizzy with hunger. 

Surely breakfast is soon. It's light(ish.) Morning approaches. 

I should sleep. I know I should sleep. But I'm so hungry. That three litres of blood won't replace itself out of nowhere. 

I distract myself with taking photos of my wonder baby. The most beautiful baby in the history of babies. With the exception of my first three. 

I watch the changing light of the dawning as it falls so gently on my newborn. 

She is so different from my first three babies. They were all large and very fair. She is small(er) and has dark hair. I wonder if she'll grow up to have dark curls. (Spoiler: she rapidly becomes blonde. My dreams of a little dark haired child are thwarted - my children are variations on a theme when it comes to colouring. Grandkids. I'm putting in my order for red hair and black hair.) 

Everything she does seems miraculous. She flexes her fingers and it seems momentous. Her face contorts into something resembling a smile as she sleeps and it seems like the first sunrise. 

Breakfast arrives. 

My Beloved arrives. He looks worse than I do. He doesn't have the pink donut I requested but he does have a hot chocolate from the mum's kitchen around the corner of the ward.

The kids are off to school and all is good. He leaves.

Something is wrong. My baby is crying soundlessly. She's a funny colour. I pick her up. I assume she's hungry although she's just fed and I even remembered to burp her. I put her on my shoulder and pat her back. The crying eases. 

I return to the familiar pattern of feeding, eating, getting changed, feeding, burping, feeding, forgetting to burp, everything is brought up, changing, re-feeding, burping. 

I am so tired my eyes keep falling shut, but every time I am half asleep something happens. A nurse arrives to check my blood pressure, a nurse arrives to check my baby's blood sugars, my baby wants more milk, I need to change my pads. 

The ward round doctors enter my room in a mob.

This is not the way I wanted my husband's bosses to see me for the first time. Puffy and splotchy with half-concealed blood-stained clothes in the open suitcase beside my bed. The shower I had after birthing seems aeons ago, although it's less than eight hours. They talk words and go. 

The nurses check my blood pressure, they do stuff to check my iron. They check my baby's blood glucose. 

I can't take in enough. My brain feels as if it's been put into slow motion. It takes me awhile to work out what people are saying. 

I concentrate on my baby. 

The nurse comes in again. 

My baby is again crying silently and oddly. I'm about to pick her up when the nurse motions me to stop. She gets out her watch and looks at the time. I think she sets a timer. 

My baby is having non-breathing episodes. 

I can't quite get my head around it.

My baby is taken away for monitoring. 

I slowly find my way through to the infant intensive care room. It is not so very far away, but blood soaks through the two pads and stains the seat when I'm feeding her, carefully, because of the cord attached to her.

I try to clean the blood up, moving slowly, and cumbersomely. It takes a long time. 

Sugar. I need sugar. Caffeine. I need to stay awake, aware. I'm scared to sleep. 

Stuff it. On my return I start wearing my baby's nappies. 

My parents arrive, bringing supplies. Already I need new clothes. I brought a suitcase and thought myself silly. Not so much. 

My older children arrive while our littlest one is still in the nursery. I guide them through and they study her with awe. For some reason my son is wearing a face mask, as you would for snorkelling, but I don't ask. 

We sit and watch. She is so beautiful. Her skin soaks up the light. It is so strange to see her placed on her tummy, the crib at an angle, when we spend so long never placing babies on their tummy. 

My wonder-child is returned to me by nightfall. I stay up most of the night, nursing her, watching. Afraid her breathing will stop. I read - a fantasy book about a heroine who saves her world against all odds. 

A nurse brings hot chocolate and I gulp down the much needed sugar desperately. I dare not fall asleep. I cannot stay awake much longer. 

The next morning my Beloved drops by before starting his shift - again he looks worse than I do. And I am still wearing nappies and have not slept in... o I can't work out the numbers. He has spent the night putting up the new trampoline. As you do. The kids are not coping well with me not there. 

Again, in the morning, my parents walk to the hospital with changes and necessities. They hold my little wondrous one while I have a quick shower - I have been too worried to leave her for more than the time needed to stumble-trip to the loo. Being clean feels good. Washing away the blood feels good. I am still clumsy, ponderous, sleep hazed. My darling is all that is perfection and I am so scared my concentration will slip, that I will sleep and she will stop breathing. 

Later in the day my things are gathered up and I am wheeled through to a much larger, single room, although the last room contained only me. (A far cry from the ward I was in with my first, when there were four - or maybe six -of us in a room and another mother's children ate my breakfast). This room is so light and airy and I feel very spoilt. Although I did not enjoy everyone and their side-kick descending for ward rounds (and let us be clear, as a general rule I dislike obstetricians) - this almost makes up for it. 

I spend another sleepless night in this new and airy room, obsessed with the changing light as it embraces my little one, so new to the world. I dare not sleep - I watch, besotted. Her tiny hands, her movements still those of one who has been held in fluid for all of their existence. 

This is the last time it will be just me and her - I savour it, willing the time to slow. This is the time apart. The honeymoon as I learn her face, her addictive newborn smell, the rightness of her weight in my arms. 

All to soon it is time to leave the hospital and return to the chaos and rush that is life beyond the hospital walls. Tomorrow I will be doing the school run and listening to stories and being pelted with hugs and demands and injustices needing to be immediately adjudicated. 

I still haven't slept. The world is blood and milk. 

But my wonder-baby is all that is wonderful and I rejoice that she is mine and I am hers. 

Storm-Light and (not quite) Newborn

A very welcome tropical storm swept through a few days ago. After a sweltering day lightning broke through dark and bulging clouds as we drove home from school. Thunder rumbled. The temperature dropped sharply and a welcome wind pulled at the trees.

In the evening the storm-light slanted through our front windows and reminded me of the storm that came through when I was still heavy with our little one. Now she has been here five weeks and it's impossible to imagine life without her.

We are still learning her - so much of her is familiar - the milk-drunk expression, the way she has of pouting out her lower lip when she's replete and stretching into curves, is so much her brother, the markings on her face and the delicate shape of it is so much her oldest sister, and yet she is so much herself. I'm still learning her humorous expressions, the way she scrunches up her nose before she lunges for the milk, the funny old-man look as she lifts up her pale eyebrows and her forehead wrinkles. The swirls of fine pale hair on her arms, and the way she pumps one foot as if it will make the milk come faster as she's feeding.

Another storm came through today - spectacular with its lightning and thunder (which I am convinced my in-laws' dog thought was the Great Dog in the Sky growling). I also made the acquaintance of another snake today - this one at close quarters as I helped my father-in-law get it out of his pigeon coop.  Beloved informed me again that this will be a Proper Queensland Summer - full of storms and snakes. My last Queensland baby also brought with her a lot of rain, although not so many snakes. While I love the storms and rains I am hoping this summer is not quite as rain-heavy as that one of 2010-11.

The lightning has stopped now, thirty-thousand homes are without power and the rain has paused, but moisture still hangs heavy in the air. My little ones sleep. I savour the cool. The quiet after the storm.

Before the Dawn

"Hon, wake up. Wake up. She's coming tonight."

Beloved stirred, murmured and went back to sleep. Sick for the last week, he'd fallen asleep beside Adventure Boy, trying to get him to bed. Another contraction took me up and I went back to my breathing, then tried to work out how long since the last one.

Everyone was sleeping, except the Wolf-en-Pup who was following me around looking worried.

"Are you sure?" The words were indistinct. For the last week Beloved hadn't been able to breath without ventolin and he was exhausted. I'd been giving him death-stares for daring to be sick when the baby was due, when I'd been warning him all year 'don't be sick when the baby's due.'

"Yes! I'm sure. She'll be here before dawn."

Of course, I'd thought that the night before as well, but this time I was really sure. These weren't just little Braxtons, these were Stamp-My-Way-Through-It, O-My-God-I'd-Forgotten-How-Much-They-Really-Hurt contractions. They were still irregular, in length and how far apart they were, but they were bloody strong.  I texted the student midwife to say I was fairly sure our little one was imminent, and opened my computer to start writing in times. Lighting a candle I'd saved since before Giggle-Bear was born, it's flickering comforted me. One of my favourite authors had a new release and between contractions I read on the ipad, in the dark room, by candlelight, with my present baby, the two year old, curled sleeping and perfect beside me.

I put my hand to my tummy, feeling the little one undulating within for the last time and felt like crying, but also laughing. Soon, soon, I'd be holding our newest little one. Soon, we'd finally meet her.

Already I was sure before the sun woke she'd be in my arms. I pictured the moment she slid out, that first miraculous meeting, when slippy and warm she'd be skin to my skin and we would get to meet the little one we already loved so much.

I let Beloved return to sleep, and read on. One-two-three-four-five-breath-in-through-the-nose, One-two-three-four-five-breath-out-through-the-mouth. O my freaking goodness this hurts. Of course, by number four I should have worked that out, but... Long breaths, steady breaths.

I waddled through to Adventure Boy's room again. "You need to get up, hon. I need you to time the contractions." Beloved stumbled through to our room and took over the stopwatch on the phone. Instead of fumbling with it myself as soon as the contraction started I said now, and he started timing. It was impossible to sit or talk through them. I jammed myself into a corner with the door, the bed and the cupboard, pressed down and stamped through them. Fast.Fast.Fast. Stamp.Stamp.Stamp. I worked out slower and harder worked better, bearing down worked better. I sank into a squat. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Soon. Soon. Soon.

"Over now," I said. My uterus was still like a ball of cement, but the pain had stopped.

"That was two minutes. You may be right. She may be coming." There was surprise in his voice. I'd told him the night before I was sure the little one was coming - my show had started and Braxtons were a regular ten minutes apart, but they hadn't been like this, and they'd died off with the rising sun. You know, just strong enough to keep me awake since midnight the night before.

"Do you think it's time to phone the hospital?" I asked. I was wary of going in too early and having everything slow down. But nor did I want to have my baby in the hospital corridor. It was a fine line.

Time passed. I couldn't stay in bed with the contractions, but needed to leap up (in my own ungainly, out-of-balance way) to return to my corner to jam a hand against each wall, sink into a squat and prepare to stamp and breath through them.

"Should I phone the hospital now?" I asked.

"Mums always phone in too early."

"But won't they want to prepare?" I queried.

"I suppose. You're sure she's coming?"

"She'll definitely be here be morning." I stopped talking as the next contraction hit and I started stamping and breathing deeply.

"You may be right."

I phoned the hospital and warned the midwife on duty that we'd be heading into the hospital in the next few hours and then texted the student the same. Returning to my book I continued the pattern of jumping (or my approximate thereof) up every ten or so minutes as the pain gripped. This was not talk-through-it-pain. Toilet trips disclosed gunks of red and I looked for a pad. Excitement swelled. This was it. This night. Our little one was arriving. I dragged my suitcases through to the living room. Packed a few extras, gathered up computers, ipads, chargers, headphones and shoved them in.

In the next contraction it occurred to me I needed to be in the hospital now. There would be no more waiting. Besides, I'd finished my book. I informed Beloved of this as soon as I could talk, then texted and phoned to pass it on to the midwife and student while Beloved bundled stuff into the car.

My mama awoke and I told her that tonight was the night and while I hoped Beloved would be home for the school run, he might not be. (Yay! No school run! The world was good!)

We headed off into the night. I worried when I made it the five minute drive to the hospital without a contraction, then doubled over, pressing hard against the car bonnet and breathing low and heavy and as slowly as I could in the car park, while Beloved unloaded. I repeated my complaint about the pain.

There was a heavily pregnant mum in the dark carpark and we exchanged remarks about due dates and wished each other good luck. She still had a few weeks to go.

We waddled through the near empty hospital and through the different doors up to the birth suite. Our midwife hadn't arrived so the charge nurse led us in and we sat and put our bags down. Another few contractions hit while we waited for the midwife. The bed was a bit official looking and hard to get off during contractions so I perched on a chair and sent Beloved searching the room for water. We realised we'd left our digital camera somewhere (the unlocked car? the carpark?) but I didn't offer to release Beloved to look for it. What if the baby came? I resign myself to an undocumented birth, though I'd lament the loss later.

My midwife arrived and my blood pressure was checked, my blood sugar, the length of the contractions. Little one was monitored. Eventually, after what seemed like far too long, they started filling the bath in the adjoining bathroom.

Because of previous haemorrhages with my first two kids (a large one with the first, a small one with the second) they needed to put a cannula into my arm. They started putting the needle in and a contraction hit and it was beyond hard to keep my arm still while lying down and pain was everything. Blood smeared across my arm.

As soon as the bath was ready I waddled to the dark bathroom, the only light that coming through the door, stripping off and sinking into the large corner tub without thought for anything but the warmth and the fluid. I was an old hand at this - it didn't take me long to find the position that worked for me, kneeling in the corner of the tub, facing out. Between contractions Beloved sprayed my face, put my birth mix music on his ridiculously expensive headphones.

Time went into a strange place. Shoulder deep in the warm water I listened to the gaelic words of the songs - the Scottish bands Capercaillie and Manran playing on spotify, lolled in the water in the lulls and breathed hard and concentrated on not tensing, on keeping my hands, my mouth, lax in the pains. One-two-three-unclench-my-fists-four-five-breathing- in, one-two-three-steady-breathing-slight-hitch-four-five-breathing-out.

The breathing came from a deeper place, a slow, steady 'aaaah' from the very back of my throat, that could easily ease into a scream. (Of course, I had headphones on, so I could have been howling and not realising...)

I visualised a gardenia bud, white and richly scented, it's petals folded, and concentrated on imagining the petals opening. Open. Open. Soon.

Soon. soon my little one would be with us.

It occurred to me it was time to break my waters. Now. None of my other babies had been born before my waters were broken, and I was sure this one wouldn't be either. Although a caul birth had a certain appeal, I wasn't about to spend an extra minute in pain hoping for one.

I asked the midwife if she could break my waters and she informed me the doctor was in theatre. So I asked if she could break my waters and she went away to check. So I asked Beloved if the midwife could break my waters, or if he could break my waters but basically, I wanted them done. That minute. Beloved informed me I was yelling and not, (as I thought) whispering, because of the headphones. Oops.

The midwife returned and I demanded asked again if she could break my waters and she said yes, I'd just need to come through to the delivery room. Beloved later informed me I used my 'demon woman' voice, which was odd as I didn't even know I had one, and she would have given me anything I wanted, including  a caesarean.

Anyway, I lumbered through, blinking at the bright light of the delivery room after the dim of the bathroom, and had all my vital stats checked and how far along I was and it turned out I was only six centimetres dilated.  This was a shame as I hadn't even intended to get into the bath until I was six centimetres, let alone get my waters broken, but I decided on a change of plan - my waters would be broken at 6 centimetres as I knew damn well she wasn't going to come till they were broken and sooner was better than later,.

Turns out I'd forgotten that it hurts. It hurts a lot. The midwife's whole hand goes up, and then a hook, and it's not a place for hands or hooks. Deep breath. And another deep breath. and another slooooow deep breath.

There was a gush of fluid and I was already hopping off the bed and heading back to the bath before the gushing stopped.

Soon. I knew she'd be coming soon.

With each contraction I concentrated on bearing down, pressing all the pain out towards my bottom - it seemed to hurt less, become bearable if I pushed out. One Two Three Four Soon. I imagined I could feel the passage opening, a hollow forming for my babe to slip through. Deep breathing, bearing down, onetwothreefourfive, steady, steadysteady, open. Time was lost again, amidst the dim and the pain.

I couldn't continue this till morning. I just couldn't. But there were four centimetres to go. Onetwothreefourfivebeardown,onetwothreefourfiveexhale. Whatever it took. I reminded myself, I'd do whatever it took. But morning was so far away. It was only just past midnight.

"I need to poo." I stood up, readying to clamber out of the bath and waddle to the loo. Something felt wrong though, and I reached down and felt - slipperyness and strange, bulging shapes. A foreignness.

"I can feel something."

The midwife hurried forward and reached out her hand.

"That's her head. I'm just helping her through." She looked at Beloved, who was clearly startled, not expecting anything to happen for hours.  "Are you ready to catch her?"

He stepped forward, still looking shocked, and our little one slipped out, an odd, satisfying feeling of slippery fullness and then she was in the world, all long legs and arms, and he was lifting her up to me.

And I was holding her. Our little one. Clasped to my chest, finally, after nine moons growing beneath my heart, here she was. Red, slippery, plump from her long sojourn immersed. Tiny wrinkled, fisted hands, frogged up legs.

"O you're here! My little one, my little one you're here!" Love and joy was overwhelming.

The wonder was overwhelming. She was small, red, with a shock of black hair. I clasped her to me, murmuring, afraid of dropping her. "Little one, o my baby, you're here!"

The moment reshaped the world. Changed everything. A new life was in the world. Our family was changed wonderfully for ever.

She was all newness, all promise.

I was dizzy, weak feeling, I didn't dare carry her and, still attached with the pulsing cord, handed her over, then reached for help to clamber out of the bath and to the bed. When my baby was given back I felt complete again. She was so very perfect. She smelt like newborn - sweetly divine. The newborn smell is so fleeting - a few days no more - I tried to savour it. She was still curled up, warm, wet and slippy against me, as if she was still within me.

"She's here love, she's really here," I murmured, dropping kisses on her wet black hair, plastered to her scull, with white stuff over it.

No one was in a rush to cut the cord connecting us, and I just held her, delighted in her. "O little one, we're so happy to meet you. This is the world, darling. This is the world. Welcome."

And then I felt a familiar, warm, gush. And then another. Uh. Oh. I'd been there before.

But none of that mattered, a story for another day, because our little had arrived, and there was still a long time till dawn.

Tiny Toes

The words are still not coming together in any sort of order. Except - aww, my baby. Hello my darling one. I will make a start on NaNo... soon. At present my list of Things I Need To Do is getting longer and longer and jumbling together (emails to write, bills to pay) but it's all going in a pleasant blur of 'o baby.'

She is, of course, unusually alert and aware and gorgeous.

'Real Life' will hit soon when my parents leave and I will find myself blinking at the loads of washing that have presently been magically disappearing.

But for now here are some photos of my little one's completely perfect tiny toes. I adore the way babies stretch and curl their toes.

By the shore (Firsts)

Words are escaping me at the moment (and let's not talk about numbers - two and two equals five and three quarters, maybe?) so I'm just posting these - my little one's first trip to the shore. It was a very impromptu trip when I needed to drop something at the kids' school and thought while I was there we could go for a walk on the beach nearby. I loaded my mama and papa and the toddler and the baby and the oversized Wolf-en-Pup (who had to sit on my papa's knee as our car is small) into the car and we headed off.

And it was so lovely to walk barefoot on sand, to take deep breaths just because, and not to deal with pain, to smell the sea. The Wolf-en-Pup bounded, Giggle-Bear said 'wow!' a lot and built sandcastles with my mama and my baby slept pretty much the entire walk, with a few times she blinked her eyes open and looked around in awe - as if to say 'this is the world?'

While she was deeply asleep I decided to use the scarf I'd swiped up as a sunshade as I headed out the door as a photo prop and took some photos in the shade of a lean-to made of driftwood. The breeze swept through and the ripples hushed and my baby smiled.

Tiny sandy feet = heart-melt.

NaNoWriMo?

So we're halfway through October, which means we're halfway to November which means a.
in two weeks (Inter)National Novel Writing Month (NANoWriMo) begins, and b. sometime within the next fourteen days our baby arrives.

No matter how I look at it, these two facts conflict.

All year I've looked at NaNoWriMo posts and felt a little stab of envy? covetousness? greed? I love the rush and challenge of NaNo. It's the closest I get, or want to get, to a team sport. Gazillions of writers from all around the world supporting each other to get 50,000 words down in a month. Mmm.

The thought of all those stories being created is incredibly amazing, and I love being part of it. Guys (or girls, I'm not sexist) mucking around with balls when they're not even exercising a dog?Incomprehensible. A world wide outpouring of creativity and novels? So inspiring.

But newborn.

My previous three babies have been great sleepers and great little milk guzzlers. But that still means they woke every two hours for feeds, burps and nappy changes for the first eight weeks. This left me somewhat sleep deprived. And while it's easy to read while nursing, it's not so easy to type.

And it was fine with the firstborn, as I did just sleep when he slept, or read or lounged. But became increasingly less fine with each additional kid when this was not an option. I have also noticed that with each child I get less help. Which makes sense. I know the ropes. It's just that each child does actually increase the work load. With baby no. 1. Beloved would bring me food to deal with the Great Hunger every morning and a cup of coffee, would bath and do nappy changes. And then the house help would arrive to make everything sparkled while I popped baby in a carrier and wandered down to the beach or the market. Baby Three? The coffee would still be left, but there was no time for nappy changes or anything else baby related with a long commute and longer, stressful hours.

Baby four? Beloved's recently decided after ten years of making me coffee in the morning it's his turn for morning coffees- and will be for the next ten years. To be fair. (I am blaming the nurses at his hospital. Some of whom seem stuck in the 1940s and he recounts gleefully comments such as 'if your wife loved you she would iron your clothes'*, 'your wife should spend every hour you're at work cleaning the house.' We hates them.) Mornings do not begin with coffee brought to the bed, but instead with 'where are my keys?' 'I can't find my cards', 'have you seen my boxers?'  So yes.  Workload doubles with each child. Help decreases. Good thing they're cute.

But... NaNo. Story. Writing. World Wide Buzz. Cafe meet ups for intensive writing...

Beloved is firmly of the opinion I should do it. Sleep Deprived, Milk-Fuzzed or not. I am a nicer person (although the house is a lot messier) when I am immersed in story.

So... I'm considering. Possibly not the whole 50,000 words. (1666 words a day) but maybe 25,000 words in the month? That's only 800 odd words a day. That seems do-able.

Sooo... the main decision seems to be... which novel.

Having decided to go with crazy, (always go with crazy) I've now got to narrow the direction of crazy.

There are three possibilities - a retelling of the frog prince set in Scotland in 1801-4 with a half Indian heiress. I've already written 50,000 words in a previous NaNo so 25,000 would nearly finish her. The second book in my Mithiana series - Overly Caffeinated Were-Wolves. Again, the bulk of the story was done in a previous NaNo so 25,000 words would get her fairly complete... or Fosterling. A cross-worlds retelling of the Irish myth of the god Lugh. I've written about 100,000 words in Fosterling, so 25,000 would go over-words. But I'm missing a lot of key parts, and other bits could do with curtailing and... and... well Fosterling has ended up a very birth and baby focused book. (Beginning as it does with the birth of triplets and ending with the birth of twins... (The story of Lugh's son Cuchulainn is, after all, the one in which Macha curses the men of Ulster to suffer the 'pangs' of birth when they're about to attack. Death and birth are very much centre stage.)

So... 25,000 words, with a newborn, who happens to be a fourth child. Piece of cake. (And cup - or dozen or three - of coffee.) Why simplify when you can intensify?

Wish me luck. (And coffee. Lots of coffee.)






*my retort being if you're not old enough to dress yourself you're not old enough to get married. I have four, soon to be five other people to dress. An extra one is not on the agenda. (Except, of course, it is. Sigh.) 

Moments

-autumn leaves
-silvered sky through autumn leaves
- babycinno. a rainy day so we took the kids to the indoor playground at bunnings. they played, chose plants (sprocket wanted lavender for his bees, poppet 'something pink'), fortuitously met with friends, and did the craft activity.
- mother's day craft activity at bunnings. beading bracelets, decorating photo frames and cards.  my Poppet was in heaven.
- camellia, finally in bloom.
-jonquils.
-late afternoon light in Littlest's Corner.
-my mama has been staying with us this week. holding Littlest in the garden.
- Littlest was born on my friend Renee's birthday. The birthday girls together.
- autumn leaves and a little handmade shoe. Very soon Littlest will have more shoes than I do. (Guilty pleasure. Baby shoes are so gorgeous!)
-Littlest sleeping. With posset. Oops. Need to change that.

Joining with The Beetle Shack for moments from our week, Littlest's first week in the world.