They tell you with your first baby that time is going to fly. With your second you can practically watch it fluttering out of the front door and down the road. And with your third you just stand there in disbelief, gazing at this beautiful baby boy and wondering how on earth he is a week old already.
Feel free to laugh at me this time next year when I’m still saying “how has he got so old so fast?!”
And at a week old our little boy is thriving. He lost about 6% of his birth weight when he was weighed on day three but at a week he was only a few ounces off that original 9lb 9oz. Clever boy.
So far we have established that he likes to be cuddled, swaddled (that’s a first for any of my children), carried in the sling, and fed lots and lots of Mummy milk. He had his first bath which I think he thought was a little bizarre but acceptable as long as it doesn’t last too long and is followed by milk, his first trip to church where he was just generally adored and admired, and his first trip out in the pram (he slept the whole time).
As for the big sisters; well Elma likes to run up to him shouting “hello baby!” or “mine baby!” and Kitty, far from being disappointed that Pinky didn’t turn out to be another sister, seems to have happily accepted a baby brother and often asks to give him a “gentle hug” or a little kiss, and if he’s sleeping when they wake up in the morning I find I have a little viewing gallery lined up down the side of my bed, just watching and waiting for him to do something.
If last week was a big learning curve for both of them (and with impeccable timing Elma moved rooms at nursery and Kitty’s best friend in the whole world left to go to school) the fractiousness born of uncertainty, change and tiredness came right back at H and me. There were some tough moments, mostly related to sleeping (or a failure so to do) but I’d much rather we took the brunt of it than have the girls see their brother as the source of all the crazy.
And as for me, well it turns out that the adrenaline high will last you about five days. I was on top of the world until about Sunday and then the lack of sleep and the physical realities of delivering a 9lb 9oz baby and then nursing that baby and his 20 month old sister all rather caught up with me, and in presenting myself to a lovely lovely midwife with a bit of a fever, the shivery aches, and I’m afraid to say a complete inability to stop sobbing at her, was roundly told off for overdoing it in the nicest possible way and sent home to go to bed and alternate ibuprofen and paracetamol until I felt more like myself. And by the time my usual midwife came for an extra visit on Tuesday I was feeling a lot better. I’m just trying to make sure that I keep taking things really slowly. Easier said than done, but I’m making the most of the girls’ nursery days to stay quietly at home and just potter around with H (who I think is going to need a holiday to get over his paternity leave at this rate!).
And as for the name? Well we did have to rule out Pinky, sorry Kitty, I promise you’ll thank us when your brother’s older.
And so without a bump name to fall back on we started to think about other names, some with the same meaning, or names we would never use because they go terribly with our surname, but nothing felt right until we got to our usual source of inspiration; a good book. In fact it’s more than a good book, it’s a classic, or at least a classic of my childhood; the tale of a brave little mouse named Pip Squeak who goes on all sorts of adventures, likes sailing and always takes chocolate biscuits for a snack. Sounds like he’d fit right in to our family.
And with that, Pinky became Pip – for the purposes of the Internet anyway!