Quick note to let you know that your dad went out to the QLD Ambulance today and got the carseat that we’ve hired installed. So the car is now A-OK and ready for you to come on down and join us anytime.
I got detailed instructions from your dad on how to put the seat in and out with you in it. There are lots of steps. But I’m sure we’ll get there. Another step closer to being ready for your arrival.
What else? Well, you definitely liked yogababy yoga last night. It was a class focussing on trying to give your baby the chance to move around and get in the optimal position for birth if it wasn’t quite there when you went into labour, and a few things about relaxation etc. You were active all through the class, after we got home, and all night. You’ve been moving around down in there and trying to get yourself into a slighly new position I’d say. Your kicking has moved slightly from being on my left side at the top, to now in the centre, or even a bit to the right. I’ve switched totally to using the fitball when working at the desk and watching TV – normal seats just make me really creaky and stiff when I try to get out of them now.
And your dad and I both dreamed about me going into labour the night before last. Your dad is getting more and more excited as the time comes closer.
OK. I’ve just realised I have a request. I want to be in the photos on the blog as the expectant Australian grandma. I found myself catching a little of the nervous flutters as I looked at you in your mother’s stomach yesterday when I went over to drop in a few more (too big for a while) clothes for you. Despite having had four of your kind of people – your Mum and her three sisters, I caught myself wondering about the exit strategy you are in the process of thrashing out right now! Tell your Mum that breathing really helped me. Whisper it to her. I know the focus made me ride on top and with the contractions to help you out.
And now I have a poem to share for you and your parents:
Bathing the New Born
I love with an almost fearful love
to remember the first baths I gave him,
our second child, so I knew what to do.
I laid the little torso along
my left forearm, nape of the neck
in the crook of my elbow, hips nearly as
small as a tern’s tail
against my wrist, thigh held loosely
in the loop of thumb and forefinger,
the sign that means exactly right. I’d soap him,
the violet, cold feet, the scrotum
wrinkled as a waved whelk, the chest,
hands, clavicles, throat, gummy
furze of the scalp. When I got him too soapy he’d
slide in my grip like an armful of buttered
noodles, but I’d hold him not too tight,
I felt that I was good for him,
I’d tell him about his wonderful body
and the wonderful soap, and he’d look up at me,
one week old, his eyes still wide
and apprehensive. I love that time
when you croon and croon to them, you can see
the calm slowly entering them, you can
sense it in your clasping hand,
the loose spine relaxing against
the muscle of your forearm, you feel the fear
leaving their bodies, he lay in the blue
oval plastic baby tub and
looked at me in wonder and began to
move his silky limbs at will in the water.