Thursday 7th May...
Unbelievably, Orla is going to be ten weeks old this weekend. Soon, I won’t be counting in weeks anymore, but months – I can’t remember when I stopped counting in days.
Already, she has completely changed my world. I’ve spent much of the past ten weeks alone with this little person; I carried her around like a secret increasingly desperate to be told for nearly ten months, gave birth to after 18 long hours, nourished her entirely from my own body both before and since her birth. I share astonishing and groundbreaking moments every single day – opening her dark, slate-blue eyes on day two, watching her face taking in my features as she feeds quietly and insistently at my breast, packing away newborn clothes that she had grown out of by two weeks old, lying next to her in bed in the mornings, sharing cooed conversations and gentle cuddles. Her smile is like the sun coming out, lighting up the room and enveloping me in its warm glow, and her tiny fingers curl possessively around my finger; she will not let me go, and I will never leave her.
How can I do anything but love this little creature entirely, more than I have ever loved anything? It’s a different kind of love to any I have experienced before. Not the lazy, restless, almost taken-for-granted love shared by family, nor the warm, cosy affection felt for friends. It’s not the loud, ostentatious sensation experienced with a new lover, or the safe, favourite jumper feel of a soulmate – it’s quiet, very quiet, but no less ferocious for that. It’s the quiet, nurturing, protective and unconditional love of a sleepy tigress in the sunshine. Don’t make any sudden moves, don’t bare your teeth or claws – I’m watching you.
Sometimes when I’m out walking, carrying this sleeping miracle pressed against my heart in her sling cocoon, and I feel it crawling through my veins like an opiate, drugging me so that I’m helpless to protest against her demands. Feed me! Change me! My tummy hurts! I can’t sleep! Hold me! I comply every time without question.
She’s so much more alert now, gazing around at her surroundings during every waking moment. She is still fascinated by light – especially the blue dragonfly fairy lights arcing over our bed - and her interest in the boldly patterned African mudcloth on the sitting room was has developed into an obsession. She chats merrily to toys and calls out to me when she gets bored or lonely after waking up alone. We talk for ages on all sorts of literary, political, theological and philosophical subjects, in a passionate and enthusiastic language of gurgles and coos, punctuated by smiles and chortles as we warm to our subject.
She’s so strong, too; she has been holding her head up since her first week, and has become ever-more accomplished at holding it steady as she sits in our arms, raising herself up on her arms as she lies on her tummy on her playmat or on the exercise ball, and pushing her legs straight to stand in our laps. The speed at which she’s growing is breathtaking, and although I mourn the loss of my precious, helpless little newborn, I am besotted with this startling and brilliant small person, who seemingly has a never-ending stream of new tricks and skills to dazzle me with.
For so many years I had managed to convince myself that I never wanted to have a child – it was far more fun to hold on to the self-image I had spent so long creating; independent, spontaneous, daring and fascinating - Peter Pan in female form. I refused to grow up, settle down and become a dull, middle-aged frump who conformed to every outdated stereotype I scorned. Arrogant and immature, stuck in limbo at 29 forever… until my mother pointed out for me what I stood to lose if I didn’t give myself a serious talking-to. I’ll be grateful to her for those words for the rest of my life; because of her sense and her daring to say those things to her wilful, compulsively independent and stubborn daughter, I now have the opportunity to bring up my own.
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