Survival of the first three months

So the 3 month mark is upon us already. What can I say? It seems like a lifetime ago since I was in hospital giving birth to Abigail. I still can't remember much about those first few weeks, which passed in a whirlwind of feeding, projectile poo and vomit (on her part) and sleep deprivation and migranes (on mine). Of course everyone says the first few weeks are hard. I had it on good authority that things start to turn a corner after six weeks. My brother laughed at this. "Yes, everyone told us it got easier at six weeks. Then, when it didn't, they said 3 months. At 3 months everyone said "wait until 6 months"....and at six months they just stopped saying anything." Over a year later, my brother and his wife are finally back to some semblance of normal sleep, only to have this brief peace shattered next year when baby number 2 arrives.

One thing we are quite certain of is that there will be no baby number 2 in our case. I guess everyone says this, but right now, the thought of going through all of that again is too much. Feeding every hour. Wailing, screaming and the quivering bottom lip. Gripe water, wind drops, herbal oils; anything in a desperate attempt to stop the screaming. Countless circuits wearing a groove into the marble floor with the pram trying to get her to sleep. Tiptoeing round the house while the pile driver on the building site next door clunks at a thousand decibels. Feeling like I've been run over by a truck; so tired I could pass out standing up. Bags under my eyes which Touche Eclat can't make a dent in. No way, Jose! One baby is quite enough thank you!

One thing I have realised, however, is that you do adapt. As a highly-strung person I was the first to dash out lines like "Oh for god's sake, just go to sleep Abigail!" or "she's going to have to go on formula". Other classics included "I'm going to throw her off the balcony" or "I'm going to throw myself off the balcony!" Or in Dom's case, that old Frank Spencer line "I'm a failure!" Eventually though, you realise that, as good as it feels to vent frustration, it doesn't actually achieve anything. It seems babies have an uncanny knack of picking up on your stress levels and getting wound up just makes them scream more while you feel worse.

It's classic change transition curve stuff in action. Pre-baby you are excited at the prospect of the new arrival; your mood lifts in anticipation of this joyous event. Post baby you rapidly slip into denial. Fuelled by some mad kind of post-birth euphoria, you are convinced that within a few days you'll be back to your old self and old routine. No problem with that half-marathon you signed up for and bring on the networking conference in Bangkok next weekend. Quickly, such thoughts evaporate, as you realise this is not a minor blip but a major bump in your lifestyle road. Example: Week 2 and Dom invited some friends over for dinner. Unfortunately I was a bit further along the transition curve and told him in no uncertain terms that if they really had to come over it would be for a quick lunch - and takeaway pizza at that.

Following on rapidly from denial is awareness, the realisation of what you have just taken on. It's much harder than you thought. It's really not what you signed up for, but unfortunately, unlike that unwanted M&S Christmas cardie, there's no return policy on this one. And all those baby books you read and confidently spouted about to family and friends? Absolutely useless. Unfortunately there is no E.A.S.Y. when it comes to babies. It's just H.A.R.D! Your inexperience is exposed to the core by this tiny human being. Never before in your life has anyone made you feel so inadequate or useless as your new bald boss.

At some point you hit the bottom. The slightest thing can send you over the edge. I remember Dom moaning that the maid had dried the baby bath off with his gym towel. Normally he wouldn't be bothered by such trivia. Equally, under normal circumstances I wouldn't roar "I've got bigger fish to fry than worrying about what f*%&ing towel the maid used to dry the sodding bath with...like you have time to go to the gym now anyway!!!" This stage is the worst. You can't imagine life ever getting back to normal. The baby's bottle is always proverbially half empty - although the nappy, in a cruel twist of fate, is always half full.

And then, somehow you start to move into acceptance. Life has evolved. There's no point resenting the fact that your weekend lie-in is toast and your social life has gone up in smoke. If she wakes to feed at 2, 3 and 4am, you should just get on with it quickly and quietly in the hope she'll go straight back to sleep. There are no prizes for throwing the night light across the bedroom in a fit of pique. Most importantly, you realise that sometimes she's going to cry, whatever you do. So you have a choice: you can either get stressed by it, or you can try and go with the flow...and let me say what a major departure in style this is for a control freak such as me!

I think I'm just about coming out of the other side now. I've accepted that come what may, she will only go to bed at 8:10pm so what's the point fighting it? I'm trying to put her down earlier if she looks tired, but if the screaming starts I just cut my losses. Don't fight the system. Whatever it takes. My new and essential mantras. That said, with each passing day, it does get easier, even if it's very much a one-step-forward-and-ten-back process! And for every time you feel like you want to scream, you only need to get one of those gummy little smiles to make you realise that somewhere, deep down, it's all worth it.