My parents visited when you were four weeks old.
Dad quietly got to work. He cleaned our oven and fridge.
The smell of Dettol filled our flat and felt like love.
Mum kept the washing rolling over and made the beds.
They bought organic strawberries from a local farmers’ market.
“This will do you good. Get those vitamins zinging” Mum said.
They could see I was delirious with no sleep so they took you after a feed and packed me off to bed.
I could hear them trying to pacify you for a wee while as I zonked out.
Dad apologetically nudged me from my slumber: “Sorry doll. He’s hungry again.”
I didn’t understand why he was apologising.
I had woken up smiling and refreshed.
“How long was I out for? It felt like ages” I said, as if I were emerging from a coma. Dad half-laughed his reply: “About 20 minutes”.
Between feeds, Mum held you and you melted into her arms.
You looked more content with her than with me.
But I didn’t mind. I put it down to the bigger boobs but really it was some innate calmness.
I watched her little ways. She knew exactly how to hold you. How to pat you.
How to talk to you. “Tell me a wee story” she’d say as you looked up wide-eyed and round-mouthed.
It felt like a masterclass in mothering that I needed to see.
I had felt silly talking to you up until that point.
There is nothing quite so delicate as a first-time mum.
She will never forget the way people tried to help.
Those who wrapped her up in love and for a moment made her feel like a baby again.