It rains

My visions of a lovely summer spent baby in tow, enjoying walks near the beach and warm days in the back garden are dampened (ha!) slightly by the idea that the El Nino that nearly ruined the Olympics with warm rainy weather is poised to ruin the summer with cool rainy weather. Fun! Ah well. Gives me that excuse I was looking for to buy those cute rainboots and a new rain coat. Because the two I have already aren't nearly enough to last a girl in Vancouver, after all.

Thinking

I was awake for a goodly portion of last night -- feeding, burping, general soothing of first one and then the other child. It's sad to realize I spent 11 hours in the bedroom and was only asleep for about half of those.

As I lay awake at one point I started thinking about the post-partum experience, and some of its various unpleasantnessess, and realized that I have some reasonable blog fodder -- some of it amusing, even -- if I wasn't too squeamish to blab to the wider internet about my bodily functions. I know some women do it, but I just don't think I can.

You're welcome.

But the fact is that despite the fact that this is my second child, there were things that surprised me about this post-partum experience -- some which were new (and normal) and some which I just didn't remember. And it occurs to me that this is frankly because we as a society don't talk about these things much. I mean, years ago, when families were closer and there were more of them, you might have watched a mother or sister or aunt go through pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, and the post-partum experience, and you might not find these things were new when you happened to have your own child. Now we never talk about it -- I've only rarely discussed birthing with my mother, and only in the most general terms, never once touching on such subjects as lochia or something else that's intimate and kind of gross (come to think of it, I never once discussed menstruation with my mother either ... perhaps I'm just an anomaly, then ... )

I think it would be better if we were more open about these things. I mean, between mother and daughter / sister / aunt / close female relation or friend. I mean, it's nice to know what to expect, what's normal, and what you can do about these things. It's hard when you've never experienced them, and you end up calling your midwife every single day to ask anxiously about something that is in fact totally normal but you've never experienced before. She's patient and kind, I admit, and doesn't make me feel dumb, but given that women's bodies are supposed to do this kind of thing, wouldn't it be better if we just had a better personal operating manual? That we knew these things about our own bodies?

I will try, then, to give my daughter a better idea about her own body as she gets older. At the very least to be the first one to tell her that she'll get her period at some point, and not let the public health nurse do it.

Sheesh.

Grown

When she was born, her fingernails curved over the ends of her fingers, and the nailbeds beneath them did as well. Concerned, I showed the midwife. She shrugged. "I've seen that before," she said. "They'll straighten out like normal within a few weeks."

They did. She now has perfect little fingernails. Straight, short, ending at the ends of her fingers, like nails should.

Part of me is a little sad. She's my last baby, and she's getting so big so fast. The little newborn things -- wrinkled skin, long fingernails, misshapen head -- are all pretty much gone. She's alert every day for longer periods. She no longer just lays on me and sleeps.

Believe me, I know it's dumb to feel this way. But there you go. Such is motherhood.

I mean, let's face it, once her toenails have grown to the ends of her toes, I'll probably be all weepy. And don't come near me once she's learned to control her arms.

Long Weekend

It's raining today, and at 11am we're all still in pajamas. Neither of
these two things will prevent us from hosting a backyard BBQ this
afternoon, with ribs, coleslaw, baked beans and lemonade. I think
it'll be good despite the rain. It's Vancouver, the guests will wear
gore-tex.

Parenting Fail

Never assume that the wet spot on your daughter's pants is just from you leaking while nursing. Especially when you can't locate a wet spot of leakage on your person. It might be that her poopy diaper exploded, and it just can't be seen on her YELLOW outfit. You may just end up leaving her sitting in poop for half an hour while you make lunch.

(Shouldn't I be experienced enough NOT to have parenting fails by now??)

Aftermath of the nursing cover-ups

When The Man's parents called a few days ago, they asked eagerly what was in the package from their church. I had told them it had arrived, but hadn't opened it at the time; I figured that that gift might be nice to open when The Man was home. His mother was pleased with the gift, and rather mystified to learn that I wouldn't be using them.

"What does she do outside the home?" she asked.

The Man replied that I just nurse the baby, that I wasn't uncomfortable with it, because I was discreet.

"What about other people being uncomfortable?" she asked.

It's hard to tell one's mother in law that you don't give a rat's ass what other people think; I mean, if it makes someone else uncomfortable, they don't have to look. It's not rocket science, people.

Plus there's the fact that I'm not exactly voluptuous in the boob department, even when in the first few weeks of nursing; I think that a C cup would just barely fit right now, and I'll be back to a B in mere weeks once supply and demand levels are established. Between my clothes and the baby, there's astonishingly little to see. You'd really have to get close and personal to see anything other than my chest, and let's face it: to do that, you'll have to know me really well or risk getting whacked upside the head.

I really don't get the whole breastfeeding-is-scary-and-gross thing. I mean, as The Man said this morning ... this is what we are supposed to do. Not just the breastfeeding. The whole reproduction thing. This is what we, as a species, are supposed to do, from an evolutionary point of view. Our whole purpose on earth is to grow up, reproduce, and then die. And yet we spend SO MUCH of our lives not doing this, that when you do it, it suddenly seems weird. And breastfeeding is just part and parcel of that whole evolutionary thing.

Anyway. I shall keep the cover-ups for now. You never know when you might suddenly be transported to an Amish church with your hungry baby and need them. And I know a couple people who are expecting in the next while, and maybe they will want them ... as I said, they are beautifully made, it would be a shame to just get rid of them.

Until then I'll be the one with my kid hanging off my boob down at the local coffee shop, making people uncomfortable.

2.5 weeks

My daughter is hitting that fussy stage, that three week developmental spurt that lasts for a few weeks, which apparently now (according to the literature foisted upon me at the hospital) is called the "Purple Crying" stage. (What the ... ??) She's fussier, harder to soothe, sleeps less. Which for her means a few squawks here and there, and frequent wakings (last night: 10:30, 12:30, 2:30, 3:30, 4:30, 5:30, and 6:30. All times approximate.) Which sucks. But such is life with a newborn, right? I remember that it wasn't until three weeks with The Boy that I got a decent night's sleep; The Girl has already afforded me some so I guess I was likely owed the seven wake up calls last night. She's making up for lost time.

Let's hope she decides punishment is over tonight. Man, I am tired! And due to the midwife appointment today, which had to be cancelled and rescheduled, I didn't get in a nap.

She's growing longer -- I can tell, because even at this early stage I can no longer breastfeed her one-handed, head at breast and bottom resting comfortably in that same-side hand. She's just a teeny bit too long for that. Growth was corroborated at the midwife's this morning, where she was measured at 9 pounds, 4 ounces -- an average weight gain of an ounce per day. Which is right on par -- The Boy gained weight at a phenomenal rate, doubling his (considerable) birth weight in less than three months, and I don't think The Girl will match that, but you never know. At least for now I am reassured that milk supply is fine.

Guess I now have an answer for the daycare lady.

She has decided, like her brother, that the best way to sleep is on someone, and so I've learned how to do many things one-handed, one on her in the sling. Alas, typing is not one of those things, so I'm sitting here typing as fast as humanly possible while she consents to nap in her bouncing, vibrating seat. She looks very content, but I know I have about twenty minutes, tops (during which I finished putting clothes in the dryer and dishes in the dishwasher, because goodness knows those are hard to do one-handed. Not that I haven't done it. In fact last night I made pizza one-handed, although that was, I admit, quite a feat.)

And I've decided that there is only one problem with the Moby wrap: It's WAY TOO WARM. I mean, if you put it on right, you are wrapping FIVE layers of fabric over your child. Who is on you. And it's 20 degrees out, which is not warm but for a post-partum woman and child, means that I go out and we are both sweating within minutes. I have gone back to my tried and true sling, the nice blue one that a certain someone (ahem!) bought for me with my first baby, a sling that was used every damn day for months, and then, when The Boy finally got too heavy for long jaunts in it, was my preferred carrier for home or for any short errand at all. (Thanks SH!) She loves the sling. I love the sling, because it's so easy and not hot and she can *nurse* in it (which The Boy never managed to do) and ... it's just great. I have it near me or on me all day.

Annnnnnddd ... time. Twenty minutes up!

Of all the weird stuff I've been asked ...

... by complete strangers ...

Conversation with one of the substitute daycare teachers (I've met her before, but it's not like I know her at all!):

Her: Can I see your baby?

Me: well, she's nursing, so ... there's her ear!

Her: Oh, you're breastfeeding! That's great!

Me: Thanks!

Her: Do you have lots of milk?

Me: uh ....

What on EARTH do you say to that??

First day as the housewife

Duh Duh DUH ....

The Man heads back to work today, and so I'm on my own with the girl child and a very messy house from a weekend of whooping it up. (or not, as the case may be ... just a weekend with two kids and two tired parents!) This child, similar to my last one, has decided that close bodily contact is necessary for sleeping, and so sleeps upon my body or not at all. It's very hard, do I even need to say it, to clean this way.

I am going to try not to be hard on myself; my first job is to take care of the baby and of me so that I *can* take care of the baby, but let's face it: a four year old and three other people make a big mess. It's going to be hard to keep up with it all. And that's not even taking into account the fact that the baby isn't sleeping as well as she had been, and I'm up a few times each night, not just for nursing but soothing and bouncing and de-gassing the child. And I'm going to feel bad if I can't keep up with it all.

But I guess it'll all come together at some point. I figure that I should give myself until month three (or whenever the girl child starts sleeping better!) before I get too worried about my abilities as a housewife.

It is what it is, right?

Second child

This morning my daughter ate, burped, and tried to fall asleep. I walked her slowly into the nice, quiet, dark bedroom, and laid her down on the nice bed. I lay down beside her, quiet and still, breathing slowly and soothingly.

She promptly woke up.

I went back to the living room, where The Man and The Boy were playing. There was chatting. Music. Movement. Light. Cats meowing. General nuttiness.

She went to sleep.

Crazy.

On my mind

* the paperwork. Man, is there a lot of paperwork to sort out with having a baby. I only just got the first of it completed yesterday. Phew. Just her registration with the government. Now I have to get her insured and get my EI payments started and get my work top up organized. How they expect people to do this immediately after giving birth, I'll never know.

* the house. Is a mess. Not actually a mess, the cleaners were here today, but a CLUTTER. God, we have so much STUFF, and it's all lying around haphazardly and it drives me crazy. My goal this year is to get rid of stuff every single week. (Preferably every day, but I want to make sure I have an attainable goal with a four year old, a small baby, and a house to take care of, not to mention a husband I'd like to spend some time with.) If we're going to live in a small space, it needs to work, you know? It needs to flow and make sense and have space for things, and if there is no space for something, we need to either find it space or get rid of it. That's my goal for the year.

* the recovery. Man, I can't believe it's only been two weeks since I gave birth! I feel so much better than I did last time! Or I would, if I wasn't still a.) sleep deprived and b.) sick with a cold. A mild cold, to be sure, but a cold nonetheless. The saving grace is that the baby hasn't got it. Yet.

* the weather. Wow, is it ever nice out!!

* the girly stuff. We got a gift certificate from friends for one of the many overpriced but adorable baby stores around here, and so I took myself down and bought a very girly little dress and some girly shoes for my daughter, who will otherwise be made to wear monster truck shirts and khakis all her life being the fourth grandchild in my family and only girl. It was a great moment and I love the pieces, but one dress and one pair of shoes cost us the entirety of the $50 gift certificate. Which is why she will learn to love monster trucks because no way can we afford to do THAT her whole life.

* weight. For some reason I keep seeing so many articles these days on weight, and I'm wondering how I can encourage my daughter to love her body and her weight. I know it's a little early for this, but it's on my mind anyway. I mean, I am genetically blessed with natural leanness, and I have a mother who had a very healthy attitude towards food, and I still spent my high school years thinking I was fat, and comparing myself to friends, and being happy when I made it through the day with few calories.

Yeah. Not. Healthy.

I never dieted like crazy or had a real eating disorder, but if someone who is 5'6" in high school and weighs less than 100 lb (I'm still 5'6" but now at 36 I haven't weighed close to 100 pounds in close to 20 years. Except for the post-divorce diet when I think I got close, but that was short-lived.) Anyway, if I could be that size and be concerned with weight, even with a mom who never dieted or suggested it for herself or anyone else ... how will I possibly help my daughter to accept herself at the size she is, with the media circus of thinness?

* We are unsure what to make of today's baby gift from The Man's parent's church ladies' group: nursing cover-ups. On the one hand -- very nice of them to think of us! And yay on promoting breastfeeding! On the other -- I will never, ever use them. I nurse in public without a problem and will continue to do so and do not feel the need to stifle my child so that no one sees a slice of flesh that they would easily see were we on the beach or at the swimming pool. Or if I were wearing a particularly low-cut top.

Oh, and also they addressed the package under The Man's full name which is only ever used by the government. So a thank you note will undoubtedly be written, but the gift itself sadly sent to consignment directly. Which is a shame, they are beautifully hand made and were they an item of clothing I'd likely have kept it forever.

* We are anticipating the arrival of The Man's aunt and uncle any moment now. Hopefully by then I'll be fully clothed if I can just get up and get a shirt without The Girl protesting the loss of her sustenance.

Tips for people upon meeting a newborn baby

Don't touch the baby.

Just don't. Don't touch the baby unless invited. Don't touch the baby when you don't know the mother.

Or at least ask.

And don't, under any circumstances, touch the baby without consent, and then casually mention you're just getting over strep throat. It may cause said (tired, hormonal) mother to sob hysterically over the prospect of her less than two week old baby getting horrendously sick and being in hospital. She's (as I said) tired and hormonal, and isn't thinking that you, having HAD strep throat and HAD antibiotics are probably the least likely person that day to pass on strep to the baby; your body has been cleared of the infection. Still. You know? Just good policy to NOT TOUCH THE BABY IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(Honestly. I mean, come on, people! Do you touch other people you've just met? Do you reach out and stroke the faces of people you've just been introduced to? I just. Don't. Get. It. I do not touch people unless I know them well. I just don't. I think it's weird to invade personal space of people you aren't close to. Maybe they will welcome it, maybe they won't, but you don't know. This is the same as touching a pregnant woman's belly. Just Don't. Do. It. Not unless you know the person, and even then it's polite to ask. To a stranger? This is just. Wrong.)

Precipitous

When I was pregnant with The Boy, the midwife team handed me a lengthy questionnaire to get to know me, my health, my attitudes towards birth, and a few other details. One of the questions was about my mother's birthing experiences. I dutifully asked my mother how long her labours had been "About five hours with your sister," she said. "And about three hours with you." Adding "But I'm not sure about yours, because I think I slept through some of it."

I related this to the midwives, and their eyebrows rose. "Family history of precipitous labour" she noted on the chart.

I had no idea what this meant, and didn't bother to look it up, either. All I knew is that five hours was FAST and that FAST = GOOD.

The labour part of the having my son was in fact fast; I went from contractionless to fully ready to deliver in about three hours. He wasn't born for many hours later, though, due to some complications.

And I didn't give the precipitousness much thought this time around -- births are all different, and just because one was fast doesn't mean the next one will be. It depends a lot, I've heard, on the position of the baby, and The Girl was for a while in prime delivery position, but she moved around a bunch and so I wasn't counting on her staying there.

(Which is not to say I wasn't hoping like heck it would be relatively quick.)

When I went into labour ten days ago, the first pain hit at 3am. It was so mild I wasn't even sure what it was, and lay in bed ready to go back to sleep when another one came. I rolled over, thinking it was just discomfort; I got up and went to the bathroom to rid myself of the muscle kinks of sleep. After three or four contractions I got suspicious -- it wasn't the pain but the regularity of them. I got my iPhone (what, you don't sleep with your iPhone close by?) and downloaded a contraction timer. (Oh, modern technology, you are a wonder.) Sure enough, four more of them show a regular pattern of about a minute long and four to five minutes apart. But they still didn't hurt, per se.

At 3:45 I woke The Man. I still think it's a false alarm. With The Boy, labour was undeniable: contractions more than a minute long, less than a minute apart. These feel half-hearted by comparison. Still, they were getting stronger -- I breathe heavily through them. He called the babysitter and the midwife, who instructs us to go to hospital as soon as we have The Boy taken care of.

We are still in denial. The Man takes a shower, gets dressed, makes The Boy a lunch, gets our things together. The friend arrives, we chat. I'm still having regular contractions, and they are getting a bit worse, but hardly as bad as last time.

At 4:30, the phone rings -- it's the midwife. She's at the hospital, wondering where we are. We finish things up, get into the car about 15 minutes later. The Man calls the doula -- I hadn't wanted to call her earlier in case it was a false alarm, but since we're going to the hospital I guess it's worth calling. Let's just note for a minute here that I am clearly still in denial, although every once in a while I get a "I don't want to DO this!" panicky thought, so perhaps it's just that I'm a little scared and not wanting to face reality.

I clearly remember that while the contractions kept coming through the drive, we did chat a bit between them, and this normalcy made me feel that things were still just slowly moving along. I emailed my sister about half way there -- time stamp 4:56 am.

We arrive at the hospital about ten minutes later. The Man parks near the labour / delivery entrance, I walk the 50 m to the door. We go inside. The midwife is there, and we need to check in. I remember clearly that I turn to the receptionist and a big contraction hits and all I can think is "I need to lie down!" I think I may have yelled that too, because they hastily take me to the assessment room, leaving The Man to check in.

I also clearly remember that I looked at the midwife as I walked into the assessment area, and said "Your hair looks pretty!" She'd gotten it done earlier the previous day.

It was the last comprehensive thing I said.

I lay on the table, and they start checking me over -- blood pressure, baby's heartbeat, etc. And all I remember is that the contractions start ripping me apart. I'm screaming. I'm begging for drugs. I'm yelling and sobbing that I can't do it. The doula arrives. She and The Man hold my hands, help me calm down a bit. Finally, with one short break in contractions, the midwife checks the progress.

The lifesaver in this whole process is that she says "We're ready to go." If she'd said "6cm" I would have given up.

And then they book it for a delivery room. The delivery rooms in this hospital are upstairs, so while I'm in transition labour they rush me out of assessment, down the hall, into an elevator, upstairs, along the corridor, into a room. I get on the bed, somehow. They give me a few puffs of gas. (Useless crap. It only makes you dopey enough not to care as much -- does crap all for pain!)

Another bad contraction hits but in the middle of it my water breaks and the pain goes from a nine to a five, and I'm so relieved I can't speak, leaving everyone to get soaked.

At the very end of the next contraction, I feel an entirely new sensation: pushing. I didn't get that with The Boy. I'm surprised by its ferocity.

There's another one. And another. And the nurse says, "I think I saw a head!"

And the midwife says, "No, I don't think so."

They both turn back to what they were doing. There's another contraction, and we are all terribly surprised to find, afterwards, a baby lying on the bed. Not just a head out, not just shoulders. The entire baby, all 22 inches of her, pushed out in a single push. There's only a heartbeat before the nurse and midwife are upon her, cleaning her up, putting her on my chest to be held. She's wailing loudly.

It's 5:30am. Two and a half hours after the first contraction. Less than half an hour from when I got out of the car and walked into the hospital.

Precipitous, indeed.

I have to say here that my reaction to this extremely quick and, let's face it, relatively easy birth is relief and great joy. Not just because it's a beautiful healthy baby girl. But because hey! It's all over! Woo-hoo! I'm done! The hard part is done! No more contractions! No more pushing! No more pain!

ha ha ha ha ha

But go look up "precipitous labour" online and you will see the DANGER DANGER DANGER signals everywhere. Babies can be hurt by the extreme muscle contractions. Babies can be denied oxygen. The birth can be so intense as to be traumatic.

The extremely fast exit can damage the mother.

Yeah.

The irony in all this is that the damage to me is almost as bad as it was last time, with the interventions and help and all the stuff they did. They have to piece me back together, and it takes 45 minutes and let me tell you: I had an epidural last time and didn't feel a thing, and MAN, does it SUCK to feel them STITCHING UP YOUR PRIVATE PARTS.

Not something I recommend.

Apparently this is a rarity, this precipitous thing. Less than 2% of births, so say the sites. That's why it's always on the news when someone gives birth on her front lawn, or in a mall, or on the freeway: it's actually very rare.

So I'm ... lucky? I guess. Lucky I don't have to go through four days of contractions without sleep, for sure. Lucky I don't even have to endure it for hours. I had half an hour of agony and it was all over. I'm sure some would envy me that. But it was intense, it was a bit traumatic, and the healing process sure ain't easy. Nor is it, ten days later, over with.

And there are dangers, to be sure. We avoided most of them, came out on the good side of things.

Lucky.

But I tell you one thing: labours apparently get faster with each subsequent child, so it's a good thing we're not having another. I'd probably have her or him in bed 20 minutes after waking up.

Or maybe that would be a good thing.

sleep baby sleep

She sleeps so well at night I worry about her growth -- she only eats once, and I wake painfully engorged. I mention this to The Man who posits Maybe THIS is normal? Maybe our other frequent eater / reluctant sleeper was the exception not the rule? I laugh. Perhaps it's true. As long as she's gaining weight, it's likely all ok. And it's early days -- she's not yet two weeks old. Time enough to wake me every hour through the night. I'll enjoy being a well-rested mother of a newborn while I can.

She makes up for it by doing the nurse / sleep / fuss most of the morning, sleeping at or on the breast for hours. Makes it hard to get anything done, but at least I am forced to relax. And really, is there anything better than sitting still holding a happy sleeping baby?

Of course it did take me ten minutes to write this one-handed.

Happy Mother's Day

On my very first Mother's Day, four years ago, my then two month old son managed to, at one time or another over the course of the day, shower me with every possible bodily excressence. I figured he was showing me how much he loved me.

This Mother's Day my children were both awake at 5am. One needing cuddles and covers and love, the other needing the diaper change of a lifetime (which for her, I guess it was!). Of course last night was the first night I didn't bring wipes into the bedroom with me at bedtime, so had to clean my daughter with the last few bits of remaining toilet paper in the ensuite bath.

And of course by the time I finished with the cuddles and covers and diapers and all, I was wide awake. I lay in the bed, my daughter nursing away, listening to my son sleeping, and despite being wide awake at 5am I felt -- and still feel -- very grateful and lucky.

Happy Mother's Day to all moms out there, and Happy Women's Day for anyone who might not have kids. Let's just celebrate all of us no matter what, and appreciate who we are and what we have.

I have the best husband ever

"can you make me a little lunch? I'm hungry and the baby is nursing."

"sure, no problem."

Six days post birth

And five weeks post modified bedrest .... and then being gigantically pregnant ... means I was absolutely desperate to get out of the house today. It's sunny. It's warm. The fresh air was approaching magical to someone who has been either cooped up or too pregnant to move very far for weeks on end.

And so I went out. The weekend before I went on bedrest I went out and bought a Moby wrap, and I LOVE it. So in she went, and out we went, and I bought chocolate and walked slowly with my daughter through the sunshine.

And limped home. The stitches? They are the not so much fun for walking, and I was supposed to be resting.

Walking: great for the soul. Not so great for other bits.

Unplugged

I haven't sat in my office chair for anything longer than an hour or two since March, but I have checked my work email Every. Single. Day. Seriously. Up until yesterday, I think I checked my work email every day except for maybe the day The Girl was born. Sad, isn't it?

But yesterday I went in, put on my "Out of Office" notice for a year, and removed all the links in my computer for bookmarks / desktop access. I'm unplugged from work, people. It's hard, breaking the addiction. I like my job, for the most part, and I certainly like the social outlet it gives me, the sense of accomplishment, the pride, and the feeling of contributing. Parenthood is wonderful, but you never really get a good year end review and a raise, you know?

I know from experience that the withdrawal will last a shockingly short time, and I will greatly enjoy being away from work this year and spending time with my children.

Aside: I still need to get used to saying that. Children!

So it's a great thing. But wow, feels very weird to not know what's going on ...

My daughter sleeps

In my arms, on my body. She stretches, she yawns, she opens her mouth. She sleeps on. I can't stop looking at her.

She has the same crazy hairline as her brother, one with a widow's peak and cowlicks at either side. He can cut his hair short to conceal it; I don't know how it will work on a girl.

Her eyes, at birth a grey-blue, are darkening to blue. Her brother had dark blue eyes for his first year, and now they are a beautiful medium brown, expressive and kind. My eyes are blue, their father's are brown. I'm not sure which I prefer. I'm sure I will think they are gorgeous either way.

Her fingernails curve over the tops of her fingers, and the nail beds do too. I'm gently and slowly separating them so the nails don't grow into the skin, and then I will cut them. They are very long. This is all the more ironic given she has almost no toenails.

Her feet are tiny. Her brother's at birth were tiny but wide; hers are just tiny. He still wears smaller shoes than many of his friends.

The hair on her head is dark, but the hair on her shoulders and her eyelashes and eyebrows are so fair as to be hard to see. Her brother had dark hair at birth, as well as dark eyelashes and eyebrows and hair on his body. When the hair on his head fell out, it grew in blond but has slowly darkened. As an adult, he'll have brown hair. Light brown, perhaps. But brown. The Girl will I think be blonder. This is all the more amazing to me coming from a family of entirely dark-haired people; I wasn't blond as a kid. The Man was, although he's brown now.

So it seems that both my children have their father's colouring, but at the moment, both of them have my facial features. Neither seems to have their father's bone structure / nose / chin / face. I look at my daughter and she looks so similar to her brother as a baby that I wonder if there were two photos of the same pose if I could tell them apart. I sometimes feel transported back four years.

My son has a single dimple in his cheek, his left one, when he smiles his best smiles.

My daughter has only smiled once while awake, and we both fell a little more in love with her. Her dimple status: still unknown.

Happy

I spent the three days after The Boy's birth in hospital, using morphine as a means to get through each day. The rest of the week I spent in bed. I remember hobbling out to the midwife's a week later, tottering slowly and agonizingly, on a strict regimen of OTC painkillers.

This time I'm still on painkillers, but I forget to take them for hours. I get up to tidy the house and remember the midwife told me to stay put for a week, and it's only been four days since she arrived. My belly is disappearing fast -- I only look a few months pregnant, not six.

I spent yesterday weeping but am calm and happy this morning, and shared some nice moments with my son, who is adapting as well as any four year old can to such a huge change in his life and routine.

I'm tired, but got some good sleep last night for the first time since the birth, and while I know tonight might be hard too, it was so great to have one good night.

In short, it's going amazingly well. And instead of sitting here waiting for the other shoe to drop as I often do, I am choosing instead to just enjoy it and be happy about it.

Who wouldn't be happy with the sun shining, the birds chirping, and a blessing of family?

She's perfect

It's been three days and I love her more than life itself. I hold her close, watch her sleep, whisper in her ear about salon visits and pedicures and shopping trips and girly things, all the things I can't wait to do with her. When she opens her eyes, I ask about her day, tell her in a funny voice about our family, play with her arms and legs and touch her button nose. Her hair is the softest substance on earth, her skin silkier than silk. She's the most interesting thing I've ever known, and I sit and watch her for hours.

It's possible that I am a tad besotted.

Or maybe I *was* in labour ...

We had our little baby girl early Friday morning, after 2.5 hours of labour and three pushes. She's 8 lbs 12 oz and 22 inches long ... pretty big girl! We are all thrilled.

And very, very tired.