Dear Audrey...

Today you are six weeks old. If your dad was here he'd correct me and say "Well, at 7.11 pm she will be."
The crazy thing is that right now, those eight hours do make a difference. Every day you've seemed more alert, more watchful. Now when you feed you stare up at me with large, calm eyes. In the evening you get a little frenzied and (my interpretation) try hijacking our dinner conversation with emphatic growls and postures, worrying my breast the same way a dog beats a loved toy into compliance.
You weigh about eight and a half pounds and fit into 0000 clothing now - the little 00000 bonds suits that hung off you in the hospital are now relegated to a box so that one day you can dress your baby dolls in them and Michael and I can be amazed all over again by how small and perfect you were.
You have already perfected a couple of expressions; my favourite is the slightly sneaky, heh-heh-heh sideways glance just before you clamp down. The switched-off pursed mouth is another favourite, even if it predicts a visit to the change table. You still don't burp very well and struggle with wind pains - sometimes they wake you up and we pat your back or try to rub your tiny tummy while you windmill in anguish. I slipped two amber bracelets onto your little ankles last week and I hope they're helping. I don't want to take them off to see! I imagine that when you get around to it you will smile generously and often. You love to sleep on your tummy propped against us, or wrapped and carried.  Thank you for the hours of rest this has granted me.
We seem to be doing ok as a family so far - your dad is great at cooking so I don't have to and bringing me a cup of tea in the morning so you and I can lie in a little. Feeling the weight of your sleeping body or watching you try to make sense of the world is astounding.

Aliens.

At some stage I decided to rebel. Now that I think about it, the rebellion started LAST barbecue, when I (six months pregnant) walked down the hall, saw the gaggle of pregnant/breastfeeding/cooing women to my right, and promptly turned left. To hang out with my geeks, because I'd rather talk
Magic: The Gathering and Warhammer 40K,
cars,
jobs and
(rarely) football (with my lot it's more likely to be some arcane board game. Or iPhone apps)
than
paid maternity leave (I don't get any, how NICE for you),
the new plasma screen (we don't have a tv and I like it that way)
the best nursing top/lament for my jeans, and
the latest developmental milestone. I work with children. I know this stuff. I don't care whether your child crawls this week or next.

So, walking through the same door with a six-week-old baby in my arms, I stepped around two strollers (really? Did you walk here?), four nappy bags (Yeah, mine's going to be 20 cm away at all times because this child is only 20 seconds from vomiting at any given time) and walked into the front room. Floor activity mat: check. Nursing mom: check. Burping-baby mom: check. Two little girls playing "Pass the six-week-old brother": check. Poor homeowners. They don't have kids (yet) but they're somehow stuck right in the middle of a breeding epidemic. I turned left.

Six feet of fabric later (babywearing is the best non-trend I ever discovered) Audrey and I were happily chatting outside. I ate lunch, I drank tea, I even fed her with a little careful loosening and tweaking and sideways positioning. I did get dragged into a sympathy bath later in the afternoon ("Omigosh, BORN ten pound ten? That must have been excruciating!") and it was the worst fifteen minutes of the day (yes, Audrey had thrown up on me twice that morning).

Am I a bad mother? Possibly. The truth is, I like other people's children when I know what I'm supposed to do with them. Give me a three-year-old and half an hour and they'll be able to sing both verses of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, or count to ten in Japanese. Give me a box of Lego and I'll build my own vehicle, climb in and drive off. At speed. But sitting around placating a child so the grownups can talk for the sake of the grownups talking... We. Are. So. Crap.