Babies are, like, super-boring.
That’s right, I did just say that.
Before you get all uppity and start huffing and snorting, hear me out. I love my daughter very, very much, even though she still hasn’t smiled at me. But anyone who has had a child will agree that the first couple of months of parenthood are so dull you’d rather pick at Susan Boyle’s cracked heels with a fingernail than change another loaded nappy.
The thing is, babies just don’t do anything, apart from eat, cry, sleep, poo and puke. It’s like a never-ending cycle of these five things; not always in that order, and sometimes all at once.
You’ll have to excuse me. I’m just grouchy because we had a rough night with Jemima last night. She wasn’t crying – we’re fortunate in that she’s not a particularly miserable baby – but she was just wide awake from the hours of 11 through to about 4. At 2.30am – a time which should only be known by night shift workers and drunk students – I was stood in the lounge, bobbing my baby up and down, and wishing she would just go to sleep so I could once more know the downy-soft embrace of my pillow.
And so I’m stood there, rocking from side to side, and I glance down, expecting to see a sleeping baby. Instead I see a huge pair of blue eyes and a steely resolve to never succumb to dreamy unconsciousness; at least not until it’s daylight.
I can’t wait until Jemima is a few months old, when she’s smiling at everything, and sleeping better, and generally just more aware. Right now, she’s just a lovely little toerag who is sponging off us and causing my wife and I to snap at each other in the twilight hours. (Last night I think I was solely responsible for third world famine, whilst I vaguely recall accusing Jess of causing the Iraq War.)
I love you, Jemima. Now just go to sleep. And, for goodness’ sake, do something.