So busy, so disinclined to write, but so worried about not capturing some of this beautiful time for posterity.
The gym is great, I go 4 days a week, my muscles are permanently tender but I'm already finding it harder to get my heart rate up without some serious intensity. The little children go to creche and after a rocky start the Monkey loves it. The Possum less so, and he comes home smelling of someone else which makes me feel viscerally upset. Worth it though for him seeing me when I pick him up, the flash of recognition on his beautiful features and the big gummy smile.
I am depressed about my post baby figure still, and my weight. Numbers are such a concrete arsey thing. Cognitive and emotional intelligence refusing to marry up.
The Possum is wonderful. I am hopelessly devoted. He is so beautiful and winning. I have always been stopped when I have been out with a newborn, but there is something extra about my baby boy. It's not just women, and children and grandmothers that fuss over him as I wander along, but men, young and old and in between. On the train they catch my eye and chat and worship. At the gym. In the line at Centrelink. In a lift. Men wanting to tell me about their experiences with babies that long grew up; babies that are yet to be born; or young men aeons away from procreating ask after him while cooing awkwardly.
Yesterday was my postnatal visit with my much loved and respected obstetrician and it was really sad paying the (monstrous!! OMG) bill and realising I won't do this again (ha ha have said that before). I am still really inexplicably SAD whenever we tick over another week, as if it's passing too quickly and I'm not doing enough with it. But if I inhale his musty warm scalp any more he's going to need a transplant.
We are moving house. This also makes me feel sad. I have lived in this tiny little 2brm townhouse for 8+ years now. It is the longest I have lived anywhere in my whole entire life. I've brought my 3 babies home here, fought with the garden here, rearranged furniture countless times. It is home more than anywhere else I've ever lived. But we have outgrown it and its awful curtains and teensy kitchen and un-linen-closeted self. So we're moving, to a little 3 bedroom house with a proper yard for the girls to play in that we can put a swingset in and invite friends over to play. It's so exciting, but bittersweet.
I did my tax for last financial year and we are expecting a nice little bonus which we are hoping to spend on much needed furniture for the new house. I love browsing catalogues and looking for new, neat, classic pieces. So much of our furniture is cheap or second hand and none of it matches. And while I love an eclectic look, ours is firmly "uni share house". I look forward to having nice things (it's the Libra in me) even if all we can afford is a new couch and a wardrobe. It's nice to dream.
But mostly with the rushing of time, what I fear most is going back to work. I will blink and it will be time to drop my Possum off at daycare while I head back to the hospital and it terrifies me. I know that the realities of SAHMing will hit me soon enough, but right now it is so right and so perfect that I wish somehow I could split myself in 2 and live both lives.