First Night Home, Lauren

There she is, my precious angel. A day old, twenty-four hours, one thousand, four hundred, and forty minutes on earth. 10pm: Fed, changed, swaddled and in her moses basket. Grab the camera for her first night at home. We might be able to watch a bit of tv before bed. We settle down with snacks (got to keep up my calories now I’m a milk maker!) and Graham Norton, perfect. And then it starts. The screaming. Not crying, screaming. Panic hits as soon as it reaches my ears. Every part of me is alert, awake and ready to do anything to stop it. I run to the bedroom and there she is eyes clenched together, mouth wide and face pink. I grab her and try to settle her before attempting to feed. But by now she is gasping, she won’t latch on but I know it is food she is crying for. Maybe its wind. I tap, tap, tap her back. Nope, no wind and won’t feed. What’s next? Is her nappy dirty? I check and change her just in case but the crying carries on. Over the course of the next nine hours, yes, nine hours, we try bouncing, stroking, cooing, feeding, changing, winding, rocking, swaddling, and every other tool in the box. Nothing calms her for more than ten minutes. The sun rises and peeks through the curtains and I feel relief. Like the ending of a horror film when the survivors see daylight and know they have made it. 7am is an acceptable time. It’s not too early is it? I dial. “Mum, we haven’t slept”. “No, not at all”.