The gospel according to Noah, part 2
Week 3
Far too many baby clothes are white. My washing machine may as well be on a constant spin cycle. Having initially wondered why on earth we are keeping draws full of outfits that will only fit for a couple of months, I now understand the necessity of each and every one.
I also plan to petition for all baby clothes to come with zips, not poppers. There are at least 100,000 parents in this country, so I fully expect this to be discussed in parliament.
---
Noah is undergoing subtle physical changes. His face is fuller. His head and neck control is now so formidable that when he rams his skull into my chest it makes a thud. His legs also have a formidable kick. I fear he’s going to grow up to be Vinnie Jones.
His newfound mobility leads him to writhe around in his cot like he’s been possessed by the devil. It’s a close run thing between which milestone he’ll hit first: rolling over or speaking in tongues.
The wisps on the top of Noah’s head are growing longer too. I promise I have not put my baby through a Van de Graaff generator.
With his development, he is becoming more alert for much longer. The big upshot is the increase in eye contact. What were black circles now feature a splash of blue. When his eyes are open, he looks absolutely amazed at the world around him. Were we closer to the ground as children, or is the grass emptier now, as Alan Bennett would say.
His grip is stronger, resulting in something approximating an unintentional cuddle when his first curls around my neckline. He can hold his bottle like he’s double fisting a pint. Which is great, but it does mean he can and has punched me like a miniature Mike Tyson. It won’t be long before his grip removes a chunk of chest hair I’m sure.
---
Is it odd that I’m thinking about what Noah will be like as a teenager already? Will he be a nice boy? A heartbreaker? Can I glean anything at all from his current habits? I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes, and they are all positive, though I have no evidence for this whatsoever.
---
Bath time has begun. After his customary protest at being forcibly stripped, Noah seems to like it. I say ‘wheeeee’ as I very lightly sprinkle water over his head. I take his silence and perplexed face as enjoyment.
---
We must have 100 muslins scattered around the house in various locations. Somehow none of them are on my shoulder when Noah vomits on it for the second time today.
Ultimately, it’s a revenge attack. While trying to eat a bagel with one hand and feed Noah with the other, I ended up dropping avocado on him. I’ve seen avocado served on toast, on a plate, even on a slate, but never on a baby. I consider contacting Heston Blumenthal about my unconventional yet ultimately impractical culinary creation.
I spend several minutes trying to get Noah to pose under the Christmas tree for a card I want to send to my brother. My baby refuses to comply with even the most basic editorial instruction, but it seems as good a use of my time as any.
---
I cut Noah’s fingernails because he’s scratched himself several times now. In the absence of baby scissors, but given the pressing nature of the situation, I resort to my adult blades. I handle them with the same kind of care as a nuclear scientist handles their radioactive waste.
---
While reading the paper in bed, my wife hands me Noah. He lies on my lap while I peruse the companies section. I struggle to turn the broadsheet pages over the top of his head - a benefit of digital over print that’s not discussed often enough.
---
Noah is now significantly above his birth weight. The health visitors seem surprised at how quickly he’s bulked up. His arms and legs now have rolls like the Michelin man. While the increased number of folds gives us a greater and more challenging surface area to clean, he’s all the cuter for it. He is not cuter for the increased volume he can now cry at, and for his tendency to reload like a shotgun after a period of false silence.
I’m glad I knew to expect weight loss in the first few days though. Not many things shrink before they grow again. If I bought a house plant and it started to wilt immediately, I’d be concerned. My plants often do, but to know this is par for the course for human babies is reassuring.
Noah has now urinated on my wife, which I found hilarious, until he urinated while I was changing him later. I was briefly looking away and was therefore unaware he was in the process of ruining several spare outfits and our coffee table in the process.
Mid change, Noah begins curling out excrement again like a reverse vacuum chord. I search for a foot pedal to retract it in the same manner. Finding none, I make do with copious wet wipes. His smells grow more offensive by the day, but somehow our love still fonder.
---
Noah continues to wave his arms over his head while he’s sleeping, like his dreams involve testifying in church. He also makes sounds that range from imitation car alarm to tortured kitten.
I often wonder what’s going on in Noah’s little brain as he jerks and jolts around. Can babies dream? I hope so. Given newborns can sleep up to 18 hours a day, it might be a slightly dull existence otherwise.
---
I got paid for the first time today for not doing any work. This is quite the relief as I stare down the barrel of impending nursery fees.
My mind rewinds to a few months ago when we visited one. The kind-looking woman handed us a piece of paper. Thanks very much, I said. We’d be in touch.
My heavily pregnant wife waddled out of the nursery ahead of me. We looked at each other dumbfounded. £1,800. That’s what the piece of paper said. £1,800 to send our as-yet-unborn child there full time.
We initially thought we were insane looking for somewhere for a baby that wasn’t even a baby yet. The kind-looking woman assured us we weren’t. She could offer us a spot in January 2026.
The nursery was little bigger than most hairdresser’s, with a similar sized garden area out the back. I’ve seen wedding spaces go for cheaper.
Honestly, my early thirties have been filled with unbridled joys. Like buying a house with my wife. Like founding out she was pregnant. Like our mortgage nearly doubling. Like impending nursery fees.
Week 4
I can’t believe it’s a month has gone by already/Jesus Christ that was a long month. Noah is approaching 30 days old. As old as a warranty on a household appliance. We are unable to trade him in, even if we wanted to.
Noah still has a red birth mark across his forehead I thought would have faded by now. I assume it’s not permanent. I also assume he’s not a boy wizard who survived a hex.
Noah also developed a spot on his chin today. I doubt he recognises his own reflection, so am glad he won’t be self-conscious about it. In future years, I will try and teach him to wear it as a badge of honour.
It had never once occurred to me that babies, like adults, could have routine bowel patterns. Noah is a night pooper. This is a suboptimal habit we have little way of shaking.
Moreover, Noah does not yet understand that he needs to be burped during a feed. He fiercely resists anything that interrupts his milk consumption. He karate chops my neck with his tiny hands to show his displeasure at being thrust up onto my shoulder and patted on his back. Sometimes I relent too soon as a result. Then Noah looks baffled as to why he’s covered in milk expulsion three minutes later.
---
Noah often makes snuffling noises like a truffle pig. I have nothing to add to this except they are in equal measure alarming and adorable. Nor do I have anything to report on his first visit to a garden centre, where he remained nonplussed by both the Christmas section and the cafeteria. Afterwards, I manage to not sleep through another film, another minor milestone.
---
Noah appears to have taken a particular disliking to his nicest outfits. The higher end, the more likely he is to ruin it by using it as a toilet. I approve of his rebellion against the power of branding. Two of his very fluffiest get-ups have now been through the hot wash three times. They are no longer fluffy.
---
A concluding thought on the seemingly interminable road to maturity in humans. After a month, Noah is still pretty much helpless. That will remain so for ages.
It’s not like that in the animal kingdom. A giraffe falls out of its mother. It staggers about for a few days, but then it can more or less fend for itself. It doesn’t still get meals cooked for it fifteen years later. It doesn’t need to move back into…wherever adult giraffes live…when it can’t afford the rent in…whatever the capital city for giraffes is.