Imogen came home on Wednesday, but missed the maternity ward so much that she went back an hour later for another night. Daddy was a little hot under the collar after a small bungle and after that the nurses decided that whenever he appeared in a corridor that they all had urgent business somewhere else, or that they were being invaded by Attila the Hun. But all's well that ends well and on her second triumphant trip home she decided to stay.
We showed her the amenities and she seemed suitably impressed. She asked about an en suite, but after we pointed out that her bathroom facilities were actually strapped to her backside she seemed content and had a little sleep. Then she had a little feed and a little sleep and a little feed and a little sleep and.....
One thing I have noticed is the lack of people coming for a visit. Everybody we know has told us that we would be a little overwhelmed at first and that they would come at a more convenient time. If the definition of overwhelmed is feeding for twenty minutes every four hours, nursing a baby that cries for about five minutes a day, and changing a nappy or ten, then when Imogen "settles down" Mrs A. and I will likely fall into a coma. Come one come all and meet this little miracle of flesh and goop.
When we chat she opens her oh so blue eyes and attempts to focus on us, but the effort is amusingly difficult. She likes having her feet kissed by Mum, and sits contentedly in the palm of Dads hand while he reads her Banjo Patterson, Henry Lawson. Roald Dahl and A.A Milne. Her little fingers struggle to enclose one of ours and when she is wrapped up tight in her wraps she looks a little like a pez dispenser.
Grandma on Mrs A's side picked up a muslin wrap the other day and asked me who had bought her such a lovely "Muslim wrap". I never knew how many Burkha jokes I had in me.
She's sleeping now, in the same bassinet that Mrs A. was in when she was a pez dispenser herself. I reach in and put my hand on her head, stroking her little blonde locks. She hardly stirs except to yawn prodigiously and drift off back in to her tiny slumber.
Note to any ante natal classmates. JtH and Mrs A. are obviously pseudonyms that we use on this blog, but it really is us, I swear.
It's 4.21 am, Monday the 20th of November, so this is unlikely to be overly coherent. I've just got home from the Royal North Shore Hospital where I have left my wife and baby daughter to get some well earned rest. Imogen Maree, aka Midge, arrived at 11.56pm on the 19th which was three days early.
After a BBQ with friends Sunday afternoon Mrs A. and I settled in for a relaxed evening until she started to get twinges around 7.30 pm. Having learnt that labour is a long and arduous process from the ante natal classes we expected to have a long time at home waiting but were surprised when we made it to the hospital a little after 11pm with less than 40 minutes to spare. By the time we arrived an epidural was well out of the equation, so with a few puffs of laughing gas Mrs A. gave birth. Two arms, two legs and a set of lungs an opera singer would envy was the beautiful result. Mrs A. made the classic "It's a boy, oh wait that's the umbilical cord" mistake, and happily she was wrong as I cut that bit myself.
Stats. 3.38kg, 48 cms, blonde, female, beautiful like her mum.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to the grandparents for waking them up so late on a school night.
So now I'm celebrating with a cup of tea, and then to bed for an hour or two before I head back for a visit.
I woke up a couple of Sundays ago having metamorphosed into the lyrics of a Beautiful South song. My skin was like a Llama's doormat, my eyes were like a rhino's ashtray and my face was like a crab's bus ticket. We'd been doing the hard yards at work to get a big job out which was tiring, and Mrs A's heavily pregnant state hadn't been doing either of our sleeping patterns any favours. So going out with the boys on Saturday whilst 20 odd women performed the secret wimmins business of the baby shower was not a well constructed plan.
Freedom from work and responsibility for an afternoon ran straight to my head as did the alcohol. By the time I awoke on Sunday morning, Mrs A. having gone to work, I was in no fit state to do anything that might have required a fit state to be done in. And how in the name of the Holy Hungry Hippo 20 women can trash a house with such attention to detail beggars the imagination.
Well done and thanks to Sacha and Maria for their hard work and success in feeding and entertaining them all for the afternoon. And well done and thanks to Stuart and Mario for getting me home from the pub in one obnoxious piece.
Less than two weeks till baby time unless Mrs A's timer pings early. Exciting stuff.