Three in the morning. I look down in a sleepy haze at the little creature feeding at my side, feeding from my side, and I think incoherently – ‘but there’s only one of you! There isn’t two? I thought there were two.’ And then I realize that there are always two – him and me.
Or him and Michael. Michael took so many wonderful photos of Felix and me in the hospital, but I took hardly any of him. And he is so beautiful with him. I will try to take more.
The days are passing in a beautiful haze. Finally I understand why everyone warns you that with a newborn time slides and it is hard to do anything apart from the essentials. I get to the end of the day and realize I have not had the time to even look out the window. After all those weeks of waiting and gazing out windows. Mum is here with us and Michael has two weeks off work and we are doing so well, taking care of each other.
I feel so blessed that everything is going so well. There is so much to say but the words are hard to catch. Yesterday afternoon I lay in bed while Felix napped, too exhausted to sleep, writing in my head but too tired to fetch my computer or even a pen. Something about how I also understand now how everyone says – about poo and vomit and that sort of thing – that it’s different when it’s your own child. I always thought it would just be because you liked them better than anyone else’s child. But it’s not that. It’s that, at the moment, Felix feels like a sort of physical extension of myself. He is his own person. But when he vomited in my face on our first night home, I truly didn’t mind, because it’s like his physical functions are an extension of my own. The fluid he spat back at me had come from my own breasts. And then I wanted to write about how at the moment it feels that the borders of identity are permeable. Everything is leaking.
But now if I want to finish this post (for which I have forsaken my chance to have a shower), I’d better just stick to a few more photos.