Tag Archives: face

Baby Now What?

I wrote about the day I gave birth (blog entry called Childbirth) and described the physical process. Harder to put into words is the emotional process that day and the next few days as my baby and I started on our journey together. I’ll start at the beginning. When I woke up bleeding that day, I knew Savannah (that’s my baby’s name) would soon be here. I was scared. That labour would be painful, more painful than anything I had ever been through. I was scared that when it came to it, I wouldn’t be able to physically push her out and might end up needing a caesarean section. I was scared that Savannah might run into trouble and have complications. I was scared that I was going to be a mother and I didn’t know if I’d be any good at it. The main feeling that morning was fear and anticipation. I could not wait for the scary bits to be over, to hold my baby in my arms, to be a mother.

I had a scan printout from 28 weeks of pregnancy which captured her face. The shape of her face was clearly outlined and you could make out where her eyes and mouth were. I must have built up an image of Savannah in my head although when I thought about it consciously in the days leading up to her birth, I couldn’t quite see a clear picture. It was a bit of a shock when she finally popped out and the midwife bundled her into my arms. I looked at her and I couldn’t quite compute what she looked like. Not like my subconscious imagined because every time I looked away and back, I felt a dart of surprise that this was Savannah. The face I was looking at was the face belonging to the baby who was moving about inside of me just a few hours earlier. She looked like her dad and she had lots of curly hair.

I handed her back to her dad as I delivered the placenta and was examined for tears (thankfully none!) and given a little clean. When she came back to me, she was rooting about so I got into position and stuck her to my still-normal-feeling breast. Lo and behold, she opened her mouth and started to suckle. That almost blew my mind. It was the reality check I needed. My brain was starting to connect the dots. I had a baby. For real. Trying to get milk out of my boobies.

So, did I fall madly in love at first sight as people often describe it? Not quite. Naturally I loved her but it wasn’t a sudden flood of emotion. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the day but it was all a little muted. I was dirty, exhausted and hungry. At my midwife’s suggestion, I mustered up all the energy I had left and shuffled to the bathroom, half hanging onto my husband as my mother held her granddaughter. As I stood under the hot shower (which annoyingly kept stopping whenever I stood still), I started to feel less drained. When I was washed, and dressed and smelling of the lovely shower gel I’d used, I had tea and toast (inhaled it more accurately) then I sat half asleep on the comfy armchair and watched my mama hold Savannah.

3 hours after her birth, the wheelchair was brought in to transfer me up to the ward where I was to spend the night. I sat in it and was handed Savannah. This was when I felt an almost overwhelming feeling of protectiveness. She felt so small, so fragile as I held her close. I pressed my face into the side of her face and felt the warmth seeping into my soul. Up on the ward, my husband and mother settled me in and said goodnight. With the curtains pulled around my bed, it was the first time I was alone with Savannah. As she lay in the cot, I lay down and closed my eyes, my hand resting on her cot. I found it difficult to sleep. Every fibre of my being was attuned to her and I was listening for the tiniest sounds from her. I didn’t sleep much that night (or any night for the next few months). When we were discharged, I sat in the backseat next to her and watched her carefully as her dad drove us home. This watching continued for the next few days until I got used to her face.

So, in the first few days, I felt warmth, protectiveness, love and fear. The falling in love bit came later. The first time I felt that exciting, blood surging, butterflies in the stomach love for her was weeks later when she started smiling socially. Every time she smiles, I feel a surge of in-loveness that makes my knees a little weak. When she smiles deep into my eyes, especially first thing in the morning, I fall in love all over again. She looks at me the way my mother looks at me. With an unconditional deep love that is incredibly humbling. When she reaches out her chubby fingers to touch my face or grabs me when I go past her highchair, I fall more in love. When she laughs with pure unadulterated joy as I tickle her or throw her up in the air, it’s love like no other. Now many months in, as Savannah learns to express herself and her personality is starting to take shape, I feel love for her like I never imagined I would love. I thought the love I had for my mother was unmatchable but it is. It is the same yet so different. Every day, I fall more in love with this innocent, beautiful child. Every day, I feel her essence seep into my very core and wrap itself around all that I am. I know that this love is the forever kind. The I’d take a bullet for her kind. The I am all in and so vulnerable to be hurt kind. The best kind of love. I am in love with her. Totally, madly, deeply.

School Refusal

My sister exhibited school refusal behaviour for years when we were little. Every morning was a huge trial in my home before I was old enough to start school. My mama would battle to get my sister washed and dressed in her uniform and she would dawdle as much as was humanly possible to my mama’s intense irritation. Then, as she approached the door of the car, all hell would break loose as she would weep as loudly as she could. If I hadn’t been witness, I would have assumed my mama was draconian and was whipping her to shreds with a dourinah (a.k.a. koboko – a leather whip that is extremely effective for whipping and causing exquisite pain). She would get as far as the door of the car and like a limpet, grab onto the frame of the door with hands and bracing her feet on the floor of the car refuse to get into the car. My mama would withdraw because she couldn’t face this torture every morning and either the driver or one of the cousins/aunties or 2 would have to prise my sister’s hands and feet off her brace position and someone chuck her into the car and shut the door. Once in the car, her weeping would settle into less loud sobbing and the last image I would have of her was her face pressed longingly to the back window, staring at me whilst tears streamed down her face as the car reversed out of our drive and took her away to school.

Coming home was a much happier affair for my sister. As soon as I heard the car’s horn blare for someone to open the gate, I would stop whatever I was doing and race onto the veranda and wait for my sister to alight. Then I would excitedly tell her about my ‘amazing day’. Truth was I hated being left at home almost as much as she appeared to hate leaving for school. I was so bored without her that I would make up stories about how much fun I had at home whilst she was away. The best recurrent series of stories that I told my sister was as follows. We had a concrete electrical pole by the side of the house that stood about 7-8 metres high. I used to pretend I could climb up this pole and once I got to the top, I would whizz around the country using the electric cables, having adventures as I went. A bit like time travel but without a tardis or similar machine. To be fair, my sister was sceptical to begin with because it was a little far-fetched but two things convinced her: an older cousin who was home with me corroborated my story and I embroidered the stories with so many details that her imagination overcame her scepticism.

Basically, I could only go up this pole on a weekday morning when my sister was never there. I somehow had special strength in my limbs that would allow me to climb to the top during those hours of the day but not outside those hours. I remember demonstrating to my sister how I could climb about 1-2 metres then get stuck so I guess she could imagine how if I carried on, I would get to the top. Then she questioned why we would go to certain places only. I was wise enough to know that if I started to talk about places I had never been, I would be caught out so I always went to Kaduna or Lagos, Mambilla or Kano or even Michika on my time travels. I told her that I did not control the time travel. All I did was climb to the top and I was beamed somewhere. I cannot remember the exact details of my stories but it generally involved being chased by someone or some animal and escaping or visiting the seaside or a mountain. Once my sister was convinced, it was easy to spin the tales into more fantastic stories. Little did I know that she believed for many many years after I stopped those tales. Apparently my story-telling was so good it was only after she was a grown up that she questioned those tales. She only admitted that to me in the last couple of years!

Looking back, I think perhaps that my sister hated leaving for school because she was missing out on the adventures of the pole travels. Also she must have missed me as much as I missed her and it was like a small bereavement every morning. Poor little thing. This must have been the case because I think within a week of my starting school, she would skip happily to the car every morning and I don’t remember any more early morning tears. Phew!