Week 11: Overheated spiralling

h e a t w a v e

Bit of an all round shit week, eh! Existential dread with the heatwave. I spent most of it indoors sitting between two fans, trying to keep the baby cool and not lose my mind.

The Terry Pratchett fans among us¹ might be familiar with his troll characters? They speak in short, simplified sentences and grunts, they can’t really think, their role is basically ‘be a big dumb guy’. But if they go to a frozen land, or just into a very cold room so the temperature drops, the troll is suddenly able to do complex maths and quantum computing. It turns out they’re only stupid because their brains don’t function at normal room temperature.

Anyway, that was me all last week.

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How many times a day can I check the weather app to see when the heat will break? The limit does not exist. It’s become my most used social media. And like most social media, it brings no joy at all.

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The only redeeming news this week is that I went SWIMMING. A huge move. So brave! So strong (emotionally)! My pelvic floor not what it was, which was surprising as I thought it was fine. But wonderful to be back. The best moment was putting on my shoes afterwards, sitting on the little low bench with the shoe rack, and — not to brag about my athleticism — to be able to reach my own feet. Huge improvement from my last swim when I was 35 weeks pregnant and absolutely done with it.

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Fretting about sleep. It all went totally to shit this week. Too hot to swaddle, or to have any blankets at all, and the baby didn’t like it one bit. To be fair, nor did any of us. But I unlocked a new level of sleep deprivation because she wouldn’t even let me put her down beside me in bed without kicking and squirming into eternity.

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Caught up on Love Island UK — Ellie and Lorenzo are the public’s favourite. M and I keep laughing about the Lorenzo bit: ‘I iron my sheets on a Saturday afternoon, ready for me to go out on Saturday evening. Then I get home from the night out, have two Ferrero Rocher and go to bed’.

Two Ferrero Rocher! This is the funniest possible combination. It must be two (2) and it must be specifically Ferrero Rocher.

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To have a child is to time travel. I hold her sleeping warm on my chest and I imagine her as a lanky, strong teenager hurrying through the house. I can’t wait to get to know her — but I also feel strongly that I already do. She’s already herself.

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Lying on my bed one afternoon in my overheated bedroom to have a nap, listening to M talk to the baby downstairs. I worry he’s better at playing with her than I am. Actually, maybe I’m just grateful that he’s so good at playing with her.

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If I lean over her on the changing mat and smile right into her face, she’ll smile back at me and kick her feet and burble.

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Thinking about being an eldest daughter and how my baby is also an eldest daughter. I wonder how much she’ll feel that the stereotypes apply to her. Will she feel like she’s the emotional support eldest daughter? Will I try so hard not to do that to her that I accidentally mess her up in a new and exciting way? More likely: things will happen and time will pass and I won’t consciously decide any of this, and it’ll only become clear when it’s far too late. This can be seen as either stressful or simply fine. We can therefore not worry about it, maybe.

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I read Our Perfect Storm this week, Carley Fortune’s new one. Also a bit existential as it has a wildfires of 2023 plotline. I was in Canada that summer, smelling the smoke in British Columbia. I remember how scary it was, coming from the UK where this isn’t or shouldn’t be a regular part of our year.

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The babe is developing the beginnings of a bald patch where her hair is getting rubbed away. Most babies get this on the back of their head where they’re always lying. This baby, being not like the other girls, has upcoming bald patches not only on the back but also on the sides of her head, because she likes to lie on one side or the other — just like me. Looks like it’s going to be Combover Summer.

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Awful when she gets hiccoughs while only wearing a nappy, as she has been all week because of the heat: it means you can see her rib cage indenting with horrible force as though someone’s poking it hard with every hiccough.

M, staring at her in horror as she hiccoughs: darling… that’s fucked

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M holding the baby up at face-level, popping a cherry tomato in and out of his mouth so it disappears and reappears. The baby laughing and gurgling. Her first joke!

M got all teary and told her she was ‘the best little girl in the world’ which made me tear up as well. We are both a mess if we’re honest. But who needs sleep or emotional stability anyway.

1. I wonder what the overlap is between Terry Pratchett fans and people who read this newsletter. I’d imagine not that big but with a few standouts? TP fans, sound off in the comments. My favourite is Witches Abroad because Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg are my chaotic queens.