My niece, Tilly, is twelve days old today.
Twelve days! You'd think I'd have mentioned her before now. I meant to, but I was a bit of a mess for about ten of those twelve and I've only just gotten around to snuffling up my snots. It's times like these I feel especially grateful that I'm not on Facebook and socially obliged to share my status updates. OMFG AM AN AUNTIE! SO DEPRESSED!!! The week I spent feeling sorry for myself because my brother and his wife have a beautiful new baby (and I don't) was not my finest one.
And she is a beautiful baby. "Gorgeous!" says my nana "I thought she'd be ugly, you know the way they are." But she has auburn hair and big dark eyes and little bow lips like her mammy's. She smells like milk, and I like that after I've held her I can smell her on my skin. The same is true of our cat, of course, but he smells of piss and catfood.
We visited Tilly the day she came home, and my brother gave her to me to hold. I fed her and winded her and tried not to look scared. She burped and I felt like a champion. I can only imagine how proud her parents must feel just to hear her breathe. "It's like we won the Lotto" my brother said, and he sounded like he still couldn't quite believe it. I called him the day after we'd visited to see how they were, and he called me back later that evening to see how I was. He knew I'd find it hard. I couldn't even begin to tell him how grateful I was that he acknowledged that, and that he found any room in his heart to feel sad for me when it must be spilling over with love for his wife and daughter.
It's an awful thing, to feel upset at the birth of a child. I felt selfish, mean-spirited, small. And very alone. I felt like there was nobody I could talk to about it, because I was ashamed of feeling that way and I thought that my friends and family would feel ashamed of me too. So I cried at home, curled up in Andrew's lap, red and angry-faced and colicky. And I hated myself for it. It was only when Andrew got upset some days later and I felt like I might burst with love and sympathy for him that I realised how my family had been feeling for me.
There's a whole lot of spilling and bursting going on here, I realise. Cut me some slack. I'm emotional.
My aunt Patricia spoke to me on the phone on the evening Tilly was born, and she heard the catch in my voice. "You know now how I felt when I heard you'd arrived" she said, reminding me that I too am special and loved, that my shine hasn't worn off. I felt a little like a child again, being consoled on a sibling's birthday, but I appreciated the kiss and cuddle all the same. I have a brace of aunties who take good care of me and I am determined to do the same for Tilly. Though I'm not sure about this "auntie" stuff. My aunt Carol has never allowed me call her "Aunt Carol" and it's only now that I understand why - it sounds so dowdy, so old. But I'll grow into it.
So here's to my good fortune and my happy family. "Tilly" (from the Irish tuilleadh) is a lovely, little-used word for that little bit extra over the standard measure. The thirteenth bun in the baker's dozen, a small, unexpected gift. I think it'll suit her.
Twelve days! You'd think I'd have mentioned her before now. I meant to, but I was a bit of a mess for about ten of those twelve and I've only just gotten around to snuffling up my snots. It's times like these I feel especially grateful that I'm not on Facebook and socially obliged to share my status updates. OMFG AM AN AUNTIE! SO DEPRESSED!!! The week I spent feeling sorry for myself because my brother and his wife have a beautiful new baby (and I don't) was not my finest one.
And she is a beautiful baby. "Gorgeous!" says my nana "I thought she'd be ugly, you know the way they are." But she has auburn hair and big dark eyes and little bow lips like her mammy's. She smells like milk, and I like that after I've held her I can smell her on my skin. The same is true of our cat, of course, but he smells of piss and catfood.
We visited Tilly the day she came home, and my brother gave her to me to hold. I fed her and winded her and tried not to look scared. She burped and I felt like a champion. I can only imagine how proud her parents must feel just to hear her breathe. "It's like we won the Lotto" my brother said, and he sounded like he still couldn't quite believe it. I called him the day after we'd visited to see how they were, and he called me back later that evening to see how I was. He knew I'd find it hard. I couldn't even begin to tell him how grateful I was that he acknowledged that, and that he found any room in his heart to feel sad for me when it must be spilling over with love for his wife and daughter.
It's an awful thing, to feel upset at the birth of a child. I felt selfish, mean-spirited, small. And very alone. I felt like there was nobody I could talk to about it, because I was ashamed of feeling that way and I thought that my friends and family would feel ashamed of me too. So I cried at home, curled up in Andrew's lap, red and angry-faced and colicky. And I hated myself for it. It was only when Andrew got upset some days later and I felt like I might burst with love and sympathy for him that I realised how my family had been feeling for me.
There's a whole lot of spilling and bursting going on here, I realise. Cut me some slack. I'm emotional.
My aunt Patricia spoke to me on the phone on the evening Tilly was born, and she heard the catch in my voice. "You know now how I felt when I heard you'd arrived" she said, reminding me that I too am special and loved, that my shine hasn't worn off. I felt a little like a child again, being consoled on a sibling's birthday, but I appreciated the kiss and cuddle all the same. I have a brace of aunties who take good care of me and I am determined to do the same for Tilly. Though I'm not sure about this "auntie" stuff. My aunt Carol has never allowed me call her "Aunt Carol" and it's only now that I understand why - it sounds so dowdy, so old. But I'll grow into it.
So here's to my good fortune and my happy family. "Tilly" (from the Irish tuilleadh) is a lovely, little-used word for that little bit extra over the standard measure. The thirteenth bun in the baker's dozen, a small, unexpected gift. I think it'll suit her.
