3 months
17 February 2018
The baby is three months old. When we booked our week in the mountains she had not even made her appearance yet. We couldn’t get her plane ticket because she didn’t have a name yet. The idea of a holiday with a baby seemed so simple.
Then she arrived, three weeks early and raring to go. We became reacquainted with sleepless nights and relived the same breastfeeding trials issues we had had with her sisters. I expressed milk every three hours day and night for eight weeks until she had learned to latch and extract milk on her own. A holiday with a baby started to seem like folly, but there was no going back.
We returned from our week in the mountains this morning and I am full of wonder for our little baby bundle. She did herself proud and it showed me that if you dare, you can be pleasantly surprised. Every time I geared myself up for another first, reasoning with myself that if it was a huge failure, at least we tried, she got on with it. I went skiing, so she stayed with the grandparents, drank my milk from a bottle and slept in the open mountain air. We decided to take a ski lift up the mountain to meet the others for lunch, and she slept the entire time, allowing us a gorgeous sunny lunch. We drove 90 minutes down the road to meet up with London friends also taking advantage of the French alps, and she slept throughout the car journeys, with a break in the middle to feed and smile at the assembled company.
I got a valentines drink up the mountain and I got to go ice skating with my big girls baby free, I had a walk around the village pushing the pram and I even got a night of eight hours sleep for the first time since her birth... it was a miracle of a holiday.
As we got on the plane this morning, Louise decided her angelic behaviour was getting a bit wearing, and decided to cry. She cried and cried, getting herself more and more agitated and refusing all attempts to calm her down. No dummy, no breast. I was completely helpless, trying to shush her and block out the accusing states and eye rolls if my fellow passengers. After fifteen solid minutes of screaming, she let rip a huge fart and then filled her nappy so much, the contents overflowed out of the top and right up her back. After that she was her usual smiley self and I reasoned that she too was sad the week had come to an end.
The baby is three months old. When we booked our week in the mountains she had not even made her appearance yet. We couldn’t get her plane ticket because she didn’t have a name yet. The idea of a holiday with a baby seemed so simple.
Then she arrived, three weeks early and raring to go. We became reacquainted with sleepless nights and relived the same breastfeeding trials issues we had had with her sisters. I expressed milk every three hours day and night for eight weeks until she had learned to latch and extract milk on her own. A holiday with a baby started to seem like folly, but there was no going back.
We returned from our week in the mountains this morning and I am full of wonder for our little baby bundle. She did herself proud and it showed me that if you dare, you can be pleasantly surprised. Every time I geared myself up for another first, reasoning with myself that if it was a huge failure, at least we tried, she got on with it. I went skiing, so she stayed with the grandparents, drank my milk from a bottle and slept in the open mountain air. We decided to take a ski lift up the mountain to meet the others for lunch, and she slept the entire time, allowing us a gorgeous sunny lunch. We drove 90 minutes down the road to meet up with London friends also taking advantage of the French alps, and she slept throughout the car journeys, with a break in the middle to feed and smile at the assembled company.
I got a valentines drink up the mountain and I got to go ice skating with my big girls baby free, I had a walk around the village pushing the pram and I even got a night of eight hours sleep for the first time since her birth... it was a miracle of a holiday.
As we got on the plane this morning, Louise decided her angelic behaviour was getting a bit wearing, and decided to cry. She cried and cried, getting herself more and more agitated and refusing all attempts to calm her down. No dummy, no breast. I was completely helpless, trying to shush her and block out the accusing states and eye rolls if my fellow passengers. After fifteen solid minutes of screaming, she let rip a huge fart and then filled her nappy so much, the contents overflowed out of the top and right up her back. After that she was her usual smiley self and I reasoned that she too was sad the week had come to an end.
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