Aidan is 8 weeks tomorrow, much makes it almost December, but it still feels like the beginning of October to me. It’s like my life just stopped right there. Now I hardly have cause to know what day of the week it is, let alone what date. It’s quite sad actually.

Things are well here. My gorgeous little boy is growing great guns (6 kg’s now, and rapidly outgrowing clothes) and we are getting out and about quite a bit, to more places than just the clinic for his weigh-in’s and vaccinations (ouch! Poor boy) and the pediatrician for his check-up. So I can’t really complain, but I do feel like complaining sometimes. Like at 2 AM in the morning when Aidan’s cries wake me and Hunny practices his new skill of sleeping through them. Not his fault at all, it’s not like he can whip out a boob and feed the boy, but at 2 AM when I’m dog-tired sometimes I need to be angry at someone. It usually wears off by the time Hunny wakes in the morning.

Being home all day alerts you to some new things, like how much of an arse your neighbour is. The one with the 5 howling dogs, a squawking parrot and the car he seems to work on all day, that still doesn’t seem to be able to idle hence him perpetually revving it. And how much I miss aircon.

Someone I know asked me the other day if I was glad I did this, glad I had a baby. It was a good day and I answered “of course” without thought or hesitation. She has 3 young, and planned, children of her own. She said it took her 9 months to be able to say that. At the time I was shocked that she had said that. I’m not so shocked now. This is a huge djustment. Life happens in three hour segments. You can’t rearrange them yourself, you are at the mercy of an infant. If he decides not to sleep for this three hour stretch but rather to cry, well then there is nothing you can do about it. For someone used to controlling and planning their days, this gets a bit heavy after 8 weeks. When I sit down with Aidan for his fourth feed of the morning and all I have managed so far is to dress myself, swallow some breakfast and pack the dishwasher, I find myself thinking “I have no life”.

As a teenager I was convinced that I was alone in my feelings, that no-one else could possibly feel like I did at that time. As an adult I know better, many moms must feel like this, so please don’t judge me for expressing it. Sometimes really I wonder if am up to this task. Everyone keeps telling me what a great mom I am, and sometimes I accept the compliment, but other times it doesn’t sit at all well with me, because I know what thoughts are running around in my head. How could a great mom be thinking these things. How could a great mom be totally frustrated with a crying infant? He can’t help it, and surely he can feel that vibe off me? That’s usually when I reply “I am just doing the best that I can”, which is mostly true. I have my limitations – I know that, but we can always do better, can’t we? Some days I see all the potential for mistakes in myself that I am trying so hard not to repeat of my parents. Sometimes I can feel my temper bubbling beneath the surface. Heaven help us both when he can actually walk and talk.

This is all a bit raw, but it needed to make its way out before it started poisoning my insides. It’s not that I don’t love my son dearly; it’s just that some days this is hard. Really hard.