I wonder if I’m the only one who (perhaps foolishly) thought that following pregnancy, my tiny little baby couldn’t possibly inflict any more damage on my body??
You accept that everything stretches over those long months, that body parts you never knew existed ache like nothing else, that your bladder appears to be under the control of someone with a very strange sense of humour. Then you give birth, which brings with it a whole new range of delightful inflictions, and then there’s the “southern sag”, where nothing seems to sit quite where it used to. But we accept it, as a kind of primitive initiation into the joys of motherhood, a rite of passage, a badge of honour, if you will.
What I wasn’t prepared for is the seemingly constant attack on my physical being from my gorgeous and oh-so-loveable son.
There are the tiny little bruises all over my chest from roaming, pinching fingers which are never still during nursing, and bite marks…oh, the bite marks!
There are the little toe-shaped bruises on my abdomen from a vigorous, and well-aimed, kick during a nappy change, and similar on my knees from a sock-avoiding heel.
There are the pokes in the eyes during an enthusiastic grab for The-Remote-We-Must-Not-Touch, or trying to grab the sunshade while I’m putting him into his car seat (which resulted in a dislodged contact lens…in the middle of town…when my parking meter had expired…but was miraculously found in the gutter at home after it must have flicked off Tiny’s clothes during the reverse car seat manoeuvre!).
Oh, and let’s not forget the bonk on the head with a robust wooden elephant during a game of rolling things under a leg-tunnel, or the fat lips from a completely unintentional, uncontrolled, uncoordinated head butt, and the finger in the ear from the baby with the hole obsession.
I’m not sure I signed up for all this abuse, but maybe I just didn’t read the fine print?