Looking after a baby is hard. Damn hard! It’s a cathartic exercise in mental and physical fortitude that fluctuates between pensive solemnity and exasperating parental torture. Nothing is easy, everything has to be strategically compliant with the child’s needs. You can’t make a drink, a sandwich or even take a dump without first considering you’re child’s needs or safety. They apply an incredible strain on you’re relationship with you’re spouse as well by virtue of proximity. Every scream bellowed by an infant is purposely designed to attract the attention of anyone in a 5 mile radius, with each one possessing it’s own unique emotional derivative. It could be one of pain, joy, inquisitiveness or simply one muttered to provoke attention at how she would rather eat her blanket than an actual nourishing meal. What ever it maybe it’s a primitive, yet effective form of communication to indicate to you, as well as the neighbouring community that she requires your immediate attention; Now! They love to play up too. Her disobedient behaviour and general insubordination is not simply limited to her nocturnal refusal to sleep but also in the simple demands, such as refusing food because there is something shiny on the wall. Screaming because noise illicit attention. Having huge steaming bowel movements in newly changed nappies. Punching or scratching herself in the face and being bemused by why such actions hurt, as well as sticking her fingers in my nostrils in search of hidden treasures, I presume? They really are an anomaly of reproductive invention.
They’re like default humans that require constant visual surveillance with only the basic principles to guide them; eat, sleep and poop. Sometimes all at once! My daughters days of benign activity is divided between being coddled by overly attentive grandparents, feeding, having her nappy changed and yawning. Mine largely consists of concealing a very tenuous grasp on reality and the vague recollections of sleeping. God I miss that, sleep. The relaxation of uninterrupted slumber. What a gloriously frivolous use of time that was. But fatigue is a prerequisite of parenthood, as is patience, the latter of which can become a conflicting emotion to conquer. Bedtime for instance is an intermittent period of rest where your often roused by the fluctuating breathing patterns of your child or the full blown panic attacks because she’s aware of her dark surroundings, the spatial restrictions of her crib or simply coercing her mother and I to wake up, indicated in the guttural whaling for us to simply admire her (and smell?) her feet, as if to say “Look! Mum, dad. I’ve got feet! Isn’t that weird?” Honestly she giggles like a drunk hyena whenever we inhale her foot odours. Her playful pursuit of self discovery can’t be rationalised, nor diminished by appropriate timing. Take last week for instance. Having been woken at about 4:30 in the morning and being the designated handler for this shift, I slink out of the comfort of my warm cosy blanket, still retaining a encroaching sense of fatigue to determine what white noise had disturbed her slumber. I was grouchy, tired and in short supply of the necessary restraint to mediate such an abrupt awakening. But when I entered her room, observed her holding her feet with her bum poking in the air and farting to usher my approach, I couldn’t of been prouder.
“Okay, next time we will try the food “in” your mouth.”
Oh wait. Hang on….
Now before you ask we didn’t decide on the names because of a brief trip to a florist. Rose is named after Emily Rose, the voice actor of Nathan Drakes muse Elena Fisher. (Though don’t tell my girlfriend that!) And Violet was the name of my aunt who sadly passed away too soon when I was just a kid. She was an endearing influence on me and her contribution to my growth as a human being cannot be overstated. And I know she’d be proud of both Rose and my girlfriend, whom is just as important in my life along with my mother.
A year ago an Easter break would have precipitated hours of casual levity with my PlayStation, reconciling after a long absence. Instead I’ve endured a 4 day weekend decorating, assembling various baby accessories and trying (failing) to perceive the intended meaning of the schematics of a child’s car seat, that requires a degree in engineering to construct. What a difference a 12 months make. “Busy, busy, busy!” My soon to be daughter (yes I realise she is the cardinal topic of discussion again!) has been a looming paradox for sometime, simply because technically she doesn’t yet exist. Only manifesting as a rigid protrusion that routinely positions herself on my girlfriends bladder or nestles casually on her back, you’re not fully cognizant of her as a living thing. That realisation is starting to materialise now as preparations to welcome her are nearing completion. The spare room, which has been reserved as my games room for nearly 3 years has now been successfully converted into a nursery for the impending usurper…er sorry, I of course meant welcoming the little bundle of joy. The television, now displaced to our room stoically commanding our domain, which now means I can game while laying down, snuggled in the encased warmth of our luxurious bed sheets. It gives you a whole new perspective, trust me. Still all my residual materials that had been clogging up this proverbial storage facility had to be relocated. In fact it was a necessity.
This is it. The final preclude that will determine the gender of our unborn child (not your’s obviously. I would have informed you of that!). As I sit in the waiting room, my feet shuffling awkwardly failing to position themselves into effete parity, the knot in my stomach tightens. All around me are the docile murmurs of patients, the rhythmic tapping of nervous feet. Individual’s in similar circumstances to my own, refracting my cautious anxiety with their own tempered assuredness. The hesitant capitulation that latches onto my anxiety is expedited by the numb confusion that washes over me like the crest of a wave. Why am I so nervous? The immaculate sanitation indicated by the white sheened facades emblematic of hospitals always incites my nerves, but why would discovering the gender of my child provoke such fervour? Whatever the neurological reason nothing can prepare you for how passive and meek you become even when someone enquires into your name. I attempt to divert my attention by observing two babies settling a disagreement by glaring at one another, both either intently observant or preparing to rip the others throats out. Conversing with barely audible gurgles my typically gaming conditioned mind imagine that these infants inert squabbles would conclude in a Mortal Kombat style conflict. I even began whispering “Finish Him” to myself?! Hardly an affable representation of gaming influence on me, but at least I’d have someone soon that could share my eccentric predilections.
Game, Complain, Repeat 