If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this almost-year, it’s that things change so quickly with a baby around, so head-spinningly quickly.
In the last five days, the three of us have worked our way through Ava pulling a top-heavy trestle table down onto herself; her first post-birth hospital visit; an X-ray session; finding out that she’s cracked a bone in her finger; hearing that there’s nothing to be done for it; and discovering that there’s no dressing in the world that an 11-month-old won’t rip off. We’ve scrubbed her blood off the floors, walls and doorframes; we’ve had to buy a proper first-aid kit; we’ve had to buy baby Neurofen; we’ve worried about her nail falling off.
But we’ve also seen how quickly babies’ wounds heal – the cuts on her fingers have healed right in front of our eyes – her cuts that were open and wet and jagged are almost completely closed.
Even though she keeps her fractured finger sticking straight up, and doesn’t want to touch anything with it, it already looks almost normal again.
I’ve never wished to have someone else’s physical pain given to me instead, because I’m a bit of a – well, a baby – but I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in the last few days wishing that I could have fractured and cut open my fingers instead – because at least I’d understand where the pain was coming from.
This mother-love thing can be pretty excruciating.