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Posts tagged ‘love’

Meet Saoirse

Saoirse catches up on some sleep

Saoirse catches up on some sleep

Our baby girl, Saoirse, made her debut on the world stage on 21 November at 11:11 hrs. She is prodigiously talented and stunningly beautiful. “There’s only one beautiful baby in the world, and every mother has it,” commented a midwife down in Queen Mary. I’ve lodged an official complaint and will not rest until that bitch is FIRED. There’s simply no excuse for that level of prejudice and ignorance in a healthcare professional.

Unfortunately, in the photos Husband took in the recovery room, Saoirse is virtually obscured by the great flobberfest of funbags – which kind of defeats the purpose. On a related note: instead of capturing me tiredly stoic but luminous, confoundingly gorgeous despite being makeup free, I look so spectacularly haggard that it’s hard not to draw the conclusion that my husband hates me.

However, since that would be seriously bad timing, I’m focusing on how tricky it must be locating anyone’s best profile when they’re shiny and covered in vernix and re-adjusting to the re-internalization of their intestines.

Saoirse at one hour old

Saoirse at one hour old

Saoirse gazes at me as if we’ve met before and she’s trying to place my face. Thankfully, this unsettling effect is offset when she blows bubbles out the side of her mouth.

Ok, now, look: I never fully got over the shock of finding myself pregnant again – especially since, if there was any sex involved, well, I certainly don’t remember it. In many ways I felt more prepared for Finn’s arrival. Or perhaps that should be ‘ignorant’.

In contrast, my second pregnancy felt like one long, torturous, acid-reflux-fuelled panic attack. Leading up to the birth there was no limit to the number of things I stressed about, including: whether my kidneys would ever recover from the skilled and precise foetal pounding sustained over the previous five months; how Finn would cope with involuntary promotion to big brother; my rate of recovery after a caesarian; whether Andrew was lying about taking two weeks off work after the birth; and – a particularly horrifying thought – that my daughter might take after me. Oh, and also DEATH; not only mine, but anyone else perishing while I was on the operating table. Because, you know, PEOPLE DIE – and not only old ones.

But what concerned me most, throughout the pregnancy, was that I wouldn’t love my second child as much as Finn.

Finn checks what sound Saoirse’s nose makes

Finn checks what sound Saoirse’s nose makes

Friends told me this fear was fairly normal, but it CONSUMED me; I love Finn so viscerally it seemed impossible I’d have enough left over for a second child.

Of course, what turns out to be impossible is trying to quantify love. 

I am besotted with my daughter.

Saoirse and Mum

Saoirse and Mum

Soundbites from the traffic lights

Me: They say we’re young and we don’t know! Won’t find out unti-i-il we grow!

Me (accompanying myself): Well I don’t know babe if that’s true! Cos I got me and, er. Baby you’ve got me too!

Me: <prods Husband in ribs> Sing! Let your voice soar to the sky! Sing, my melodic lover!

Both, in gorgeous, gut-wrenching harmony: Babe! I got you babe! I got you babe! I got you babe!

Husband: Er, ok. Ah, I got you to hold my hand! I got you to understand!

Me: I’ll do the instrumental. Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!

Me: I should have been a rockstar. I would have been called Lola and the Blades. Why, why, why didn’t I follow my heart and become a rock star?

Husband: Because you can’t sing?

Me: You’re so negative

Measuring love

Me: How much do you think I love you?

Husband: <holding his thumb next to forefinger> This much?

Me: More!

Husband: How about this? <employing the fisherman’s rule>


Husband: More than anyone has ever loved anyone else in the history of the whole world, possibly universe?


Husband: Ok, now you’re just exaggerating

Romantic snapshot

Earlier today as I drove us to Mt Wellington, Husband picked up my hand and kissed it.

“Do you think you’ll still be kissing my hand in twenty years time?” I asked dreamily.

Yes indeed, I subject the poor man to conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” said Husband. “I might lose my lips in a freak train accident.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I’d have to get electronic lips.”

“And why wouldn’t you be kissing my hand with your electronic lips?”

“You mightn’t have a hand.”

“Freak train accident?”

“Don’t look so skeptical – it’s entirely probable you’d be on the train too.”


Husband rang me yesterday:

“Now, you know our anniversary tomorrow?”

“Yes . . .”

“Well, I was wondering about presents. Do I buy you a present? Or do you buy me a present?”

“You buy me a present.”

“Oh. So you don’t buy me a present?”


“That doesn’t seem fair!”

“Really? Well, those are the rules. But since I revel in anarchy in the pursuit of a perpetual anti-establishment lifestyle, how about I buy you something?”

“Eh no, that’s ok. It’ll probably be crap.”

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