Today was a Sunday, and I woke you up at nine in the morning. You woke up quite easily. A sort of puzzled frown, and then a lazy smile. I eased you out of your sleeping sack, and the day began.
As usual, you had to be changed. Water and cotton pads, and a light touch to clean the insides. A fresh shirt and it was time for milk. One hundred and twenty mils, which you drank about two thirds of before we changed you again. It is your habit to expel your share while drinking. Typically your face turns quite red with the effort. And of course, you refuse to drink until you are clean. I can understand.
OK, so a burping follows that. You like to be carried. Typically we try to let you rest before we pat you. Sometimes you don't quite get it right - only air comes out, please. Today we were quite fortunate. I tried not to jinx it, and I didn't. It's a rare day when you hold down your end. To be fair, a liquid diet can be a mouthful. You're on the medium sized nozzle, and the speed seems to suit you quite well. But lately you've decided that enough's enough and you press your lips firmly together. It works.
After a good feed we tend to chill out and I take the time to have my breakfast and wash your clothes. You are usually satisfied enough that you agree to play with your hanging toys on the baby frame for awhile without mewing. Today your favourite coloured streamers are in the wash, so you experiment with fingers and toes on the rubber ball with many thin sections. Your legs are lively and strong. Vibrant - a word we learned today - not really, but close enough.
You nap for about half an hour. It's on your face and belly, with your fingers tucked into your lips. Two seems to be the agreed number lately. When you're done, we repeat the milk. Sometimes it's obvious you need more. This lunchtime we have a walk downstairs. It's rained the entire day, and we left the windows a crack open. It's cool and fresh in the house, and actually quite charmingly cold downstairs. I tried to explain the rain, clouds, and the lightning to you. Ray, who cleans the block, is washing the floor, on a Sunday. You're quiet outdoors. When we come up again we give you more milk, lactose free this time, because you've had a flu.
You nap for an hour and fifteen minutes. It took you half an hour to settle into a position you tried about twelve times. To be fair, I forgot to change you. I sit behind the screen in my study, now your room, and play a bit of Diablo 2 Remastered. I bought it on sale for eighteen dollars. It can be paused.
When you wake up, we feed you again. Again, one hundred and twenty. You used to take a hundred and fifty, but not right now. That's OK. When you're done I read you a book, about a rabbit that goes wandering in a meadow, looking for a flower for his sickly friend. He meets a caterpillar and a bee. I try to explain how each of those things work. I said that we need to read a little bit every day. That's just how it is.
You nap again. When you're up, another drink, but I don't think you need a change. That's a relief. Perhaps you're back in infantcare on Tuesday. So far you've missed more than you've gone, but that's no big deal to me. I'm your dad.
We walk around again when you're done. It's charming outdoors, cool and a little moist. The boys are playing football, and they shout and come up to say hello to me and you. They ask your name, and I say you're Hayley. One of them says, Hayley? with surprise. I say yes. They return their attention to the game. I haven't kicked a ball in nine days or so. You watch the game quietly. There's a girl in goal. She's decent, and they shouldn't do that.
When we come home we feed you and it's bath time. Thank God, you love the bath. Your legs kick the water and the tub, and I tell you to knock it off before you break it. I wash under your neck and shampoo your hair. Some water slips into your mouth and you turn red with choking. I rinse you off and pat you dry. You usually complain when I dress you after the bath. Tonight wasn't so bad. We feed you again, say a little prayer for Caleb, amen, and you are happy. You're so happy that it takes your limbs twenty minutes to stop gyrating. You fall asleep on your face. Mama notes the time.
