PostingParenting paradox

Hours before J & I leave for our first weekend away from her, K and I have an exasperating five-minute tussle while she crawls away as I grapple with her poo-filled nappy. I yearn for my freedom, to be the old me. Within hours of actually leaving I'm missing her.

J and I have decided to abscond to Madrid for the weekend for some couple-time, the sort of thing we did successfully before K arrived. It's not quite the fun-fest I expected. It's as if a limb's been amputated, not having K there. Between my arms is an emptiness where I think she should be. I find myself checking my breasts to be sure the milk hasn't disappeared.

After I phone home twice that first evening, Granny orders me to stop calling and enjoy myself.

The sun shines on me and J as we sip coffee in the Plaza Mayor on Sunday morning - Mother's Day. We eat tapas at an authentic tapas restaurant filled with sober-suited Madrilenos standing at the bar in their Sunday best. In the course of the weekend we row on the boating lake in the Parque del Retiro, walk hand-in-hand past magnificent architecture and look at Picasso's Guernica.

Through it all I gaze at other people's babies, seemingly everywhere. I peer into prams, guessing the age of the baby, noting the buggy make.

Posted 19 March 2007 09:18

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