Baby Lauca on the back of the plane.
In the first year of motherhood I got quite run down by about the four month mark. Bill was working incredibly long hours and the weeks of being home alone with a colicky baby were beginning to accumulate. The crying stage, it went on and on. We had passed the six week milestone, we’d passed the three month milestone, and we were rapidly heading to the six month milestone and still there was no ‘let up’ in this colic thing. One hundred and twenty days, and counting, of crying. My mother was living interstate at the time and she invited Lauca and I to stay with her for a week. I was somewhat nervous – the logistics of packing for a week away with a new baby, flying for the first time with her, and then being apart from Bill and his middle-of-the-night assistance.
But, in fact, it was a week of pure bliss. My mother quieting my baby daughter in front of the fireplace during ‘witching hour’. My mother taking my baby from me after the pre-dawn feed so I could ‘sleep-in’ until dawn. My mother inviting us for walks along the beach. My mother making tomato soup for me. My mother buying my baby new clothes. After that week was up I flew home restored.
Bill met me at the airport; we were all delighted to see one another. And then something went wrong and we had an argument in the airport carpark. I felt all the perspective and recovery and joy acquired over that week drain out of me and like a puddle at my feet it seeped into the bitumen and was gone. It was the worst kind of wastage I could imagine.
My god, the first year is hard.