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Whose Baby is That?

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It's Saturday, 25 November 2012.

4.24am.

I'm awake.

I'm still awake.

I've been awake forever. For the past 6 days, 19 hours and 58 minutes, in fact. Actually, no, longer than that. I didn't sleep for the day or so of torture before it all started, and therefore, by my calculations, I am probably a woodlouse. Because they don't sleep, either. They merely enter a metabolic slowdown and poodle on regardless. Although I think I'm probably more meltdown than slowdown.

So although I'm here, I'm not exactly present. I'm 12% functioning, 88% spectral ghost; just hanging around, completely knackard, on the cruel cusp of hibernation.

So, anyway. It's now 4.26am. My eyes are open, but only just.

When I blink, I keep my eyes closed a bit longer to enjoy a minute's rest. I occasionally nod off, only to abruptly snort myself awake.

The constant, nauseating exhaustion is me, now. I can't remember ever feeling different.

I'm jiggling between the bed and the cot, cradling my tiny new baby girl, rehearsing my new dance. I can do this one in my sleep.

Jig, pat, sshhh, jig, pat, sshhh...Over and over again. I've found a beat to the ear-piercing screams. Or they've finally deafened me.

She's got horrible colic that makes her scrunch up into an even teenier ball. I don’t know that yet, though. I'm still learning. There's lots I don't know. There’s lots I'll never know.

As she stares at the room suspiciously, her gaze fixes to a spot just over my shoulder and she finally falls silent. She's looking at a sliver of light streaming through a gap in the door. It's just a light, but she's completely captivated.

She's so new, she doesn't know or trust anything. Her tiny world has only just been born. She's exhausted, but too intrigued to rest.

In just 4 hours and 2 minutes, Olivia May Smith will be one week old. My baby girl has been with us for barely seven days. A week that has had the slowest hours, but the fastest time. My newborn is getting less new by the minute, and she's making sure we participate her every moment.

I'm so tired. Ant's tired. There's so much to talk about, but no energy or silence for words. We haven't spoken for over a week.

Ant is dozing on the bed next to where I'm dancing with our new baby. He's asleep but not sleeping.

"Whose baby is that?" He asks. He's sleep talking. His subconscious hasn’t caught up. So much has changed too quickly.

"It's our baby, Ant," I whisper, scared of the reaction to the bombshell I've just dropped.

"I miss you," he replies, unexpectedly.

He's just spoken a gazillion feelings in three words.

I miss you too. I love you. What the bloody hell just happened?

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