Just Peachy

This week has been a tough one. A long dark tea time of the soul kind of tough. A combination of baby-routine induced cabin fever and the realisation that I enter my thirties this week has left me with a sense of melancholy and a very short fuse. 

I thought I might break out of this with a trip into Melbourne on Tuesday, but as those with babies know all plans must be flexible and Frankie’s sudden requirement for a nap at 9.15 left plans ‘fluid’. The day quickly turned into yet another day of homeliness and only further compounded my ennui. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love being home with Frankie and I love living in Kyneton. But lately Frankie’s need to have nice long naps in her own cot has meant our waking hours are spent within a prams walk; at the park, the shops or just at home in the lounge. The little bundle I used to put in the wrap for a whole day out now wants to crawl, standup and grab and hit things. A once soothing train ride which would lull a baby to sleep in minutes are now spent wiggling on mama’s lap trying to touch other people’s things, or elicit smiles from strangers the way only babies can. It’s exhausting. 

So Wednesday came and I woke up the baby to make the 11.11 train. The hour journey felt about three hours long with all the wiggling and whinging and laughing crying and three nappy changes (in one hour people!). 

Hungry and already feeling ready to go home we made it to the gallery, got some food and enjoyed an entirely pleasant meal together with minimal mess and a cheery baby talking to lots of people on the surrounding tables. Ready for some art viewing, I plonked baby in the pram. Then I got distracted for less than 10 seconds reaching for the fresh nappies, which was all it took for my precious wiggler to launch her unsecured self out of the pram and head first onto the concrete. 

She was in shock, and was a little bit hurt. I was in shock and may have PTSD. As I stood there clutching a wailing baby to my chest willing the hurt to be better, another mother rushed over and asked if we were both ok, patting me on the shoulder and telling me that I probably feel worse than she does so don’t worry - that makes it sound like she was rubbing it in but it was done with tenderness and sincerity which was lovely. The crowd of concerned faces only made me feel worse. 

It didn’t take long for Frankie to stop crying. I coat checked the stupid pram and kept her in the sling, as close to me as I could. The sling was better for seeing her tiny eyes widen at all the art - it was amazing that she was so interested. After a sedate wander through the galleries she fell asleep at my chest. And I kept checking that she was still breathing. 

A day out in the rainy Melbourne air did help shake me out of my home funk. Frankie has a tiny red mark on her head but no egg and I have a greater appreciation for pram seat buckles.

Frankie's photo of the stained glass in the Great Hall at NGV.

ps. the title of this post refers to this article.