Sleeping like a baby?

Now that I have finally accepted that I’m no longer in the first flush of youth, I notice that everyone seems to be treating me a bit differently than they did when I was young, and allowed to be foolish.

I was fourteen when my first niece was born.  And every few years since then, another little person has come to join our family, and we’ve been delighted with every one of them.

I love to spend time with them, and enjoy their company hugely.  But I’ve always gotten away with one challenge.  All my life, I’ve explained to the Mammies and Daddies that I can’t be expected to change a dirty nappy, for lack of experience. 

In my younger days I was let away with utterly refusing to have hand act or part in the foul business.

Basically, I only usually step in for babysitting duties if the child is old enough to not wear nappies, and to tell me when they’re hungry or need to be put to bed.

It would never cross my mind that they might like to go to bed at random times in the middle of the day, or that they might like to eat at regular times.  I once had my nieces for the weekend and offered them Saturday night’s leftover Chinese takeaway for their Sunday brunch.  They’re not foolish girls, and immediately contacted their mother for rescue.

However, because of a series of unfortunate events, culminating in a medical emergency, my sister and her husband bravely left their four year old and fourteen month old in my sole care recently.

It was to be my first foray into getting a baby ready for bed on my own, but, showing my age at last, I felt ready.

People often assume I don’t like babies, just because I chose not to have one.  But they’re incorrect.  I actually love them.  Especially when they’re giddy and funny, like the ones my sister has.  And they seem to love me.  They probably know  they can wrap me around their little finger .

I was feeling pretty confident by the time bedtime came around, the first night I was left alone with them.  My beloved godson, four years old and full of wisdom and divilment, was insulted out of his mind when I offered to help him change into his pyjamas.  So that just left the baby.  No bother.  I’d tackled my first dirty nappy the day before, with what I thought was great success.

It hadn’t been a difficult one.  Nice and quick and clean.  I assumed it was because he’s over a year old, and finished with the disgusting nappies I’d heard about in the past.

He soon put me straight there.  I was horrified, that night, to discover a nappy that looked like he’d sat in a bowl of funny coloured stew.  Two month old stew, by the whiff of it.  The baby was very good humoured about it all, and kept giggling and trying to steal my glasses while I was staggering around the changing table, trying not to retch, so what could I do but deal with it?

Then we got to the pyjamas. Is there a reason why baby pyjamas are so complicated?

I don’t mean the toddler ones, the trousers and top sort of thing.  I’m talking about the little sleeping suits they wear that make them look ridiculously cute, once you get the damn things on.

The baby was lying on the changing table, opening the bum cream and spraying it around merrily. So I tried laying the sleeping suit flat on the baby to see if I could match up the pieces. They’re quite a confusing garment, sleeping suits, when you’re not used to them.

Of course he thought laying his pyjamas over him was hysterical, and started playing peep with me. You know the thing, he puts the pyjamas over his eyes, I start acting all confused and saying “Where’s the baby?” over and over.  Then he pulls down the pyjamas, I shout “There he is!” with a surprised face, he laughs hysterically, we do it again, then again, then I tried to put his pyjamas on, and he gave out stink.

The older, wiser boy walked in, told me that’s not how his Mummy does it, got bored of me begging the baby to let me dress him, went off and brushed his teeth.

I got one leg of the sleeping suit on, despite the fact that the baby was pulling at the neck of it to put it back over his eyes.  Then I buttoned up that leg.

It turned out that it’s not possible to put the suit on successfully if you button up one leg before putting on the other leg.  Especially if you button the legs on when the baby is still under the body of it, pulling it over his eyes.

Eventually in his pyjamas, I put him in the cot, and he turned on his mobile.  I turned out the light and went out to check on the four year old, who was sitting in his bed, in his pyjamas, teeth brushed, storybook chosen, wondering what on earth the delay was about.

When I’d had a chat, read the story, sung a couple of songs and left his room, I was confused to notice that the baby’s light was on.  I told myself I must have forgotten to turn it off, and went into the room to find the baby waving at me and smiling, and suggesting that I pick him up and bring him back upstairs.

Lights off, obviously, and music on again.

I was very surprised, when my sister arrived home and went to check on her small sons.  She told me that she doesn’t usually leave the baby’s light on, it keeps him awake.  I was sure I’d turned it off, and immediately started wondering whether I was further along in middle age than I’d accepted.

The following night, the same thing happened.  I peeped around the door to discover that our lovely little boy had twigged on that there is a second light switch in the room, which happened to be just above his cot.

When we were putting him to bed at night, he would wait until we were gone, turn the light back on, and proceed to play with his toys.

Considering I’d never noticed the second light switch, I suspect he might be a lot more clever than I am.

All in all, I’ve learned more new skills in the last few weeks than in the previous year.

I can change a dirty nappy, though not with much grace. 

I can think of songs to sing to a four year old.  He wasn’t impressed with my dreadful renditions of Take a Chance on Me by Abba or The Killers, Read My Mind, and now I know that the songs I was taught in national school are a better starting point.  If only I could remember them.

I’ve learned that baby food doesn’t necessarily come from jars, and that in fact my beloved sister, obviously an excellent mother, doesn’t like feeding her children from jars.  It isn’t that difficult to cook a carrot and a potato for the baby, or to plan such cooking around the times when he is likely to wake up and be furious with hunger.

I also found out that conker collecting should only be done when the children understand that the ones in the prickly cases aren’t a good choice.

And that knights and pirates are the coolest people on earth, and if I want to be the cool auntie I’m determined to be, I’d better buy a horse or start tying my scarf around my head before I go to the door when he comes to visit.