t plus 10: I have omphalophobia!

Until about 5 minutes ago I thought I was alone with my particular fear.

Now with a bit of random surfing on the infosuperhighweb I’ve discovered that not only are there apparently loads of people out there with the same fear, but it’s got a name, too: omphalophobia.

Yes, it’s a fear of belly buttons. Stop laughing at the back there…phobias aren’t supposed to be rational…

There are two big moments where omphalophobics (?) really suffer during parenthood:

1. With the question “Do you want to cut the cord?”…Sorry? Pardon? Come again? I can’t even begin to find the words for how much I completely don’t, in any way whatsoever, ever, under any circumstances, even if my life and that of my family were at risk, want to cut the cord. I not only don’t want to cut the cord, I also don’t want to see it, touch it, go near it or think about it. And frankly, I also want to stop writing about it as soon as possible as well.

2. When that damn plastic clipped nastiness that is the remains of the fooking cord falls off. Usually somewhere unexpected (like in your damn bed), usually when the omphalophobic is in charge. No. Bad arrangement. I vote for leaving your newborn in hospital as a matter of course until that fucker is sorted out, cleaned up, no longer an issue. In fact, I vote for a surgical procedure to seal up the belly button as soon as birth occurs. If we did that for a few thousand years surely evolution would just start producing kids without the need? What would be wrong with just simply NOT having belly-buttons? It’s not like they bring anything to the party, apart from fluff.

Do you think it’s alright to be completely in love with 99.8% of your new son, but not the last 0.2%…?

Anyway, what was this blog post about again? Ah yeah, Rohan’s plastic thingy dropped off, mercifully early, and I didn’t have to deal with it. Thank fuck for that.

t plus 4: sleep? over-rated.

The yoof has been home two nights now (and a couple of days too, apparently, although it’s a bit of a blur) and I’m being reminded of what it means to not get a good nights’ sleep.

I have to say that it’s a load better it being summer time: Dan was born mid-December so once we were installed at home and had got Christmas out of the way it was pretty much January. And how shit is January, really? It’s dark, cold, cash-poor and you spend most of it with that post-Christmas “must eat salad and lose 10 pounds” feeling. Miserable. They should ban January, same as Tuesdays. (If I haven’t drunkenly ranted to you before about Tuesdays, here’s my theory: Monday = ok, still a blur from the weekend. Wednesday = ok, middle of the week and the end is in sight. Thursday = ok, pretty much Friday. Friday IS Saturday. Saturday and Sunday = obviously ok. Which leaves Tuesday. Rubbish.)

Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. Sleep.

The boy is starving all the time and, I guess not suprisingly, doesn’t much like being places other than lodged on top of me or Rach. Given he’s spent 9 months with loads of gurglings and heartbeats and body movement that’s not altogether suprising. Last night at about 2am I was lying there inventing a kind of artificial chest thingy to attach new-borns to, with a heartbeat sound, some breathing movement and a little body-temperature heater. What do you think? Can I retire yet?

So here I am writing a blog post. Dan is out shopping with the parents-in-law, and Rohan is in a sling just in front of me. Which proves I’m a new man, surely?

Everything certainly seems a lot less dark this time around, both mentally and I guess cos it’s not January, physically, too. Having Dan around is just so hilarious it takes the focus off the inevitable inward-lookingness of these first few weeks. But ask me again once the sleep-deprivation starts inducing hallucinations.