– 11:12 pm
You and I did a little experiment last night. It wasn’t planned or premeditated and I was ready to u-turn if my expected results didn’t pan out.
Normally, when you go down at eleven, you tend to eat again around two, plus or minus 20 minutes on either side. But in a spur-of-the-moment, I decided to ignore our usual cadence. Even with your eyes fully closed, I could hear you toss, turn and grumble. But I ignored it, opting not to wake you up fully like I often do. I wanted you to decide between sleep and food all on your own accord. Whatever the choice, I was willing to oblige though hoping for the former. And that’s exactly what I got.
But I couldn’t be sure, so I went downstairs and brought up a warm milk bottle in case you changed your mind. You live on the extremes of your emotions. Every reaction seems profound and exaggerated. Hysterically happy or sad are milliseconds apart as far as you’re concerned. A switch to the latter is instant, loud and difficult to ignore (but thankfully fairly easy to dampen). So I was on edge but prepared. The room was a little cold so I wrapped my t-shirt around the Tommee Tippee anti-colic bottle and placed it under the spare pillow.
I closed my eyes and woke up more than an hour later around 3:30 am. You were still asleep, blurting out the occasional grunt. If you screamed bloody murder now, I’d have to dash down to make you a fresh bottle as the milk can only stand for an hour. At least so I thought. Checking now and the advisory notice is actually two hours. I just sent your mother a screenshot so she knows. She’s the source of the one-hour life span.
By the way, I ordered earplugs which will hopefully cut out your snorting. Yours are very worrying sounds. They kept me in and out of sleep till about 4:14 am when I checked the time. I got up and prepared 150 180ml of Aptamil thinking you’d be starving.
You were still asleep when I undid your swaddle. As expected, you woke yourself up a few minutes later and by 4:24 am, you had a bottle in your mouth, eating sucking ferociously like there was no tomorrow. You still didn’t go beyond your normal 150ml though.
But most importantly, I’d somehow managed (through trial and error) to get you to sleep from eleven to four for the first time, at seven weeks old. That’s great. We’ll need you to do more of that. Your grandmother is leaving on Saturday. It’s just going to be Liza and I so this would be a very timely and welcomed adjustment on your part for us.
The morning might bring another tale of tonight though. Fingers crossed they get you to repeat the feat. I have the night off after back-to-back shifts. I’m exhausted, especially after last night, anxiously waiting for you to cry and disagree with my actions.
The last time Lyn and I were in Cameroon, she gave me some of mum’s things. These are our (and your) customs. Lyn, who now represents Mafor, gets to share her belongings among her close friends and members of the family. I took one of her outfits and eventually got it up on a mannequin when I got back. Now I get to see her every day. There’s a portrait of her in something similar which I really like. It’s a photo I took in 2018 at the house in Douala.
It’s been on my mind but yesterday I decided to introduce you to her. That’s how Liza got to take this picture. I had you in my arms and without leading you, you stared at her the entire pose. The same way you look at art and colours, steady and fixated. Even when I move your body, your head and eyes gaze in the same direction.
The photo was met with joy, pride and emotion when I shared it in the family chat. As you grow up, I’ll do my best to give you little nuggets of who she was and how much she meant to us. Her passing leaves a void I cannot fill, an emptiness I am learning to live with.
When you love someone wholly and unconditionally (like your mother does you), then sadly this is a tragedy you cannot escape. It is fated. You should know that. Worse, acceptance won’t make you better prepared for it. When my mother was alive, I used to think about how sad I would be if she died. The thought in itself was… But the reality was impossible. My wish is that life delays your grief as late as possible.
In brighter news, another health inspector dropped by yesterday. You’re on the cusp of 6kg, currently 5.8 and in great health. Your neck is also getting a lot stronger. I’ve been repeating some exercises I saw on YouTube getting you to raise your head and toughening your abdominal muscles. You’re doing great.