The Return of Inca Rule

To paraphrase the French, Le Baby Inca est arrivé!

Now hands up everyone who wants to hear all the gory details...

No, I though not. Neither do I wish to re-live them. However, should you ever have the opportunity of being interned in a maternity clinic in Peru you may find the following medical terminology useful:

“Un dolorcito” (a little hurt) is how they describe shoving a big epidural needle into your spine (no doubt also known in NHS circles as an “Optional Extra”).

“Un momentito” is what the anaesthesiologist says when he answers his cell phone in mid-operation.

“Un bañito” is when the nurses give you a perfunctory wash in your bed and then hose you down with your £40 Yves St Laurent Rive Gauche Eau de Toilette like its Limacol.

“fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” is what you are allowed to mutter pleasantly under your breath while hobbling to the bathroom for the first time with a six-inch incision in your abdomen, because no one will understand what you are saying.

The most traumatic moment however, was being described as “housewife” on the birth certificate. Husband made all the right patronising noises about it being the “hardest and most important job in the world” blah blah blah. I resisted asking him whether he’d have accepted having his macho latino self described as “stay-at-home father”. Though at that point he might actually have said yes and meant it, such was his euphoria.

It won’t last of course. He’s still at the “ohmigod he’s so wonderful but why does he sleep all the time?” phase. I warned him in advance that he would be hovering over the crib poking the child awake to make sure he’s still alive and he scoffed at me. He did exactly that on day one and yesterday remarked in a disgusted kind of way that it is a good thing that breathing is required as a sign of life since, if it was optional, Smuggitos wouldn’t do that either. He will soon eat those words – no doubt raw with onions and a splash of lime juice.

Smuggies is also euphoric – though more cautiously so. In the run-up to the birth she was waxing philosophical about “the end of 100% of love” and “I’ll quite understand if you guys like him more that you like me. After all, babies are cuter than people”. I assured her that for most people babies are indeed cute but are, at best, fleetingly diverting, quickly becoming boring because they lack conversational skills so she and her brother would certainly not be appealing to the same audience.

I then had to get creative about the mathematics of love, explaining that it is not a finite resource and therefore not apportioned on a percentage basis. She was unconvinced. I tried to float the theory that there were different “love resources” and that there was therefore “Smuggie Love” which is specific to her and cannot be subtracted from in favour of “Smuggito Love”. She did not openly jeer at the suggestion but I suspect she only pretended to accept it to get me to shut up.

Having now returned to the pumpkin after the artificially regulated environment of the clinic, everybody is struggling to adjust to the Atahualpa in our midst.

Husband is caught between parental enthusiasm and extreme irritation at the minutiae of childcare. Having sweated over assembling the crib; accepted (with poor grace) that reading the instructions BEFORE installing the car seat might yield a more successful result than his first few efforts; and supported me in and out of bed to go to the bathroom; when then asked to find a specific white muslin cloth, carefully washed and sterilised for the purpose of wiping excess milk off the royal face, he snarled “why can’t you just use this?” and tossed me a sweaty T-shirt that had been draped for some days over the shoe rack.

Smuggies on the other hand has been vigorously playing both sides of the coin. She imperiously cites her previous childcare experience (a year-old cousin in the Dominican Republic) and insists on holding him, burping him, singing to him, walking him and generally hovering possessively over him. She then reports to everyone in an exhausted and long-suffering voice "I got no sleep whatsoever! I've been up since 4.00 am with the baby".

My father-in-law, having cleaned the house to within an inch of its life, seems to be at a bit of a loose end now. He comes in every morning before leaving for work and every evening on coming home to see whether the baby is awake. Asleep or awake, he peers proudly at him and then scuttles away.

My suegra is keeping me fed and watered (or rather chicken soupy wouped) and trying her best to resist teaching me how to breastfeed. She has also taken in good part our repeated rejection of her nutritional suggestions for Smuggitos. Breast milk only for 6 months is not a concept that she is familiar or comfortable with. She is however, a world champion burper and is now the official Gas Czar.

As for me, I’m suffering all the indignities of the barely ambulant. In addition, given the newly realigned family priorities and the sheer weight of responsibility he is now shouldering, I have been too terrified to ask my husband to retrieve my toothbrush from the bottom of whichever bag he shoved it into when we were leaving the clinic. However, I figure if I breathe ardently on him for a few days he may take the hint.