The second line appears on the pregnancy test and in that moment, you know that your life will never be the same. You promise yourself two things… 1. you won’t be one of those couples that refers to each other mummy & daddy and 2. they’ll fit into your lives, not the other way around.
This is how you find yourself only a couple of months later swearing at your husband after he’s left booking a holiday until the last minute. Where you would normally micro-manage every part of the research and booking process, you decide to let go of some of your controlling ways and instead focus on getting your baby to stop taking crap naps. The result? A package holiday to Greece.
Friends tell you that you’re going at the perfect stage, right before your sleep thief is mobile and needs tonnes of entertaining. You’re certain it’ll be just like the good old days.
It should have started to dawn that such thoughts were pure delusion when you were forced to take out half of your clothes from the suitcase to make room for yet more nappies having been told by your husband that the package holiday to Greece only included a 15kg baggage allowance. If that hadn’t done it, the trauma of airport security was sure to make it sink in. However, it doesn’t matter you tell yourself, you’re going to lose the blue tinge you’ve developed from months of staying in with your baby. Life will be normal again.
Having arrived early evening, you put your baby to bed, just to keep them in the routine on the first night…. tomorrow you say will be a different matter. However, a few hours in and you’re sure that your baby has somehow magically developed jet lag on the 3-hour flight, as they refuse to go down. You Google “UK to Greece baby jet lag” but no results are returned. Eyes are rolled out loud.
The next morning, having only mustered a couple of hours sleep between wakes and feeding, you reassure yourself that things will be fine as you’ve got all day with nothing to do other than napping by the pool. You’ll definitely get to catch up on all of your missed sleep.
Having secured what you consider to be the perfect spot, with a couple of beds in the sun and one in the shade, you soon realise that the sun is fast moving around and so begins the game of shuffle the sunbed every hour. You douse your baby in factor 50 (which makes them turn blue and look rather ill) before popping them into a full body swimsuit, only to worry that the sun might somehow be getting to their newbie skin…. and so off to the shade you head.
You spend the next couple of hours entertaining (read: feeding) the baby in the shade having discovered that the pool makes you cry by dipping a toe, let alone them. And there you arrive… at that magical moment, nap time. You walk for a good 15 minutes with the pram bumping over cobbles in a desperate attempt to make your little person sleep and you smugly walk back to the sun lounger declaring that’s how it’s done before high five-ing your husband to be greeted with the cry of a baby awake once again. Turns out the high-five was too loud.
Several more attempts and the pet is asleep, leaving you 30 minutes in which to desperately tan. You forego tanning lotion with the mindset that you aren’t going to be in the sun long enough to catch. You try to lie back and relax whilst attempting not to fall asleep with the worry someone might steal the baby or that the muslin will smother them. You finally manage to relax and it’s time for the baby to wake.
Of course, then there’s the beachwear attire. Having scoured ASOS like a mad woman for a “fuller bust” bikini, you’re pleased that you’ve finally found something to wear which covers you and yet still leaves easy access. That is until your boobs explode due to the heat, producing way more milk than your melons know what to do with. Husband is happy with this development, baby on the other hand decides that there are other ways they’d rather go than death by breastmilk and so commences a feeding strike.
The result? You’re left with wet patches on your bikini, huge bloody wet patches that teeter on the edge of dribbling down your not-quite-yet-toned tummy. You’re faced with two options… taking a dip in the ice-cold pool in the hope of rinsing your bikini out but very real risk of leaving a trail of milk behind you or lying in the sun desperately hoping they dry out (your boobs and the bikini). You go with the latter and are left with white ring stains. Perfect.
It’s right at that moment that Charlie’s Angels appear on a hen-do, wearing little more than dental floss. They wear black t-shirts declaring they’re here to get drunk, you’re pleased beyond belief, making you truly body-confident. Said angels set up camp right opposite, on the other side of the pool. Of course they do. Sunkissed beauties parade around, carefree and whipping their blonde ponytails whilst downing shots of Tequila. You make jokes about hating Charlie’s Angels to your husband whilst secretly giving them looks of death behind your sunglasses. All of the dads become much more inclined to play with their kids in the pool. One man is so busy looking that he almost pushes his baby’s pram into the deep end, he’s wearing Speedos at the time, it’s all very traumatic. You demand it’s time for a nap in the room.
So with that, we’ve reached day 3 in the holiday. We are having fun. Honest. More trials and tribulations will be reported shortly. Do let me know how your first holiday went… I’d love to compare notes.