It’s like riding a bike, falling off of one, or something

Baby number three sort of crept up on us, I’ll freely admit that now. With the boy we avidly read the “this is whats going on inside your right now” diaries, memorised the scans, and generally got far too excited for our own good. With Fifi things were toned down a little as we were up half the night with the boy anyway. Now number three is here, I’m fairly sure I went to both the scans, and I remember conceiving him (just not the exact date).

I learnt nothing. NOTHING.

One of the things I was looking forward to though was the unshakeable knowledge that since I’d done this twice before, nothing could faze me because I was a seasoned pro at this parenting lark. If I was going to be poetic, I could say that kids are apparently like snowflakes, each one unique and special but I’m not. It appears each new baby that pops into this world has it’s own store of devious habits that exist only to baffle and outfox it’s parents, whilst causing them maximum confusion and discombobulation.

In short, apparently I know diddly-squat about parenting. Despite raising two children to the ages of almost 5 and three respectively, I’ve become soft and unaccustomed to doing things like changing nappies on someone who is simultaneously incredibly delicate and also trying to flick crap at me with a will using both feet. The dark art of winding a baby has abandoned me completely too- I’ve sat in bed for almost an hour trying to coax a burp out of a small baby, despondent in the knowledge that even though he’s feigning sleep, the second I lie him down the evolution-disproving trapped wind will make him scream in apparent agony.

I’d forgotten too that newborn poo resembles nothing less than a jar of Korma cook in sauce, with perhaps a bit more grit than is absolutely necessary. Of course things are different this time- neither wifey or I are changing his nappy every 36 minutes in case he’s done a bit of a wee. On the odd occasion of an evening when we’re not quick enough in the evening to respond to  his wails, the boy appears in his PJ’s, a face of thunder, to tell us off for not keeping Danger quiet.”Daddy, I am trying to sleep but the baby crying is stopping me!” was the admonition I had to bear last night. The shame!

The list of imponderables goes on and on:

  • how do you put a coat on someone who’s elbows appear pinned to their sides?
  • just what is that strange grunting sound and what does it mean?
  • if his tummy is the size of his fist, where exactly is all that milk going?
  • is he too hot/cold/tired/awake/bored/over stimulated?
  • why don’t I know whether he is  too hot/cold/tired/awake/bored/over stimulated?
Perhaps when we get a good nights sleep we’ll realise we’ve actually got this parenting malarky sorted and it’s just a matter of perspective…