Don’t tell me a newborn is hard work…

Sarah Wragg - 12 Oct 15

They say nothing can prepare you for having a baby. You go to classes. You prep the house. You wake up at 3am worrying about how you’ll cope. Will you love it? Will you pine for your old life? Will you be able to keep it alive? Mothers are viewed as an entirely different species to their childfree friends: overnight they have this huge, important, terrifying role. For which Nothing Can Prepare You.

Well that, my friends, is total tosh. And how do I know that? Because this weekend I looked after a puppy. Holy smokes that is a different beast ALL together, if you’ll excuse the obvious pun.

I have a (very gorgeous) two year old boy, who like many is a mega bundle of energetic life –in his eyes nothing cannot be climbed onto, jumped upon, put in his mouth… Of course he didn’t come out that way, but now 22 weeks into my second pregnancy I will admit to having had several pangs of fear about coping with him and a newborn.

Then this weekend my sister left her 3 month old Bedlington Whippet puppy with us while she went abroad. And today, Monday, I am a broken woman.

In many ways he is like a baby – he sleeps for hours at a time. He needs carrying a lot. He has very little bladder control. He has trouble sleeping alone at night. But in many, MANY ways he is nothing like a baby.

When he was awake, he made up for his unconsciousness in spades, rubbing around at 100mph, tearing through rooms in a blur. Often in hot pursuit of a terrified toddler.

He went to the toilet inside more than outside, despite the back door being open from 7am until 11pm every day – in October. Sometimes the poo wasn’t so soild. Every time the wee was never spotted until my socked foot was squarely upon it.

Anything left on the floor – newspapers, toys, shoes – was fair game. In fact I abandoned wearing my slippers at all after a couple of hours when I realised I couldn’t walk past the puppy without him suddenly attaching himself to the back of my footwear/heel and refusing to let go, so I was basically dragging him along with me. Slowly.

So today, four hours after I handed this little creature back to his owner, I am no longer worried about coping with a new born and a 2.5 year old. I have enough within my arsenal – thanks to both Nature and Mothercare – to enable me to cope. I can be sure my ankles won’t be nibbled as I get out of the shower. I know I won’t suddenly spot a warm little turd on the carpet mid-way through dinner. I am confident the baby won’t terrorise its big brother with zero warning and with no cause, resulting in distraught tears and the need to be carried around the house for his own safety (for a few months at least). And most of all I know that when I leave the room the baby will, by and large, be where I left it upon my return.

That said, it wasn’t all bad. Our little man has a new pal with whom to play football, albeit one who can jump higher and run faster than him, which proved scary. He has shown an adorable caring side, where he wants to “stroke gently”, or “wake up the puppy to play”.

He has also proved himself capable of being far more grown up when required than, as an only child, we have let him be. (Case in point: I am no longer a gibbering wreck if the front door is left open for 15 seconds, fearing he will escape and lie in the middle of the road. The puppy can run faster, and he isn’t mine to break.)

However, I am also much more laid back about the prospect of having a second baby. Sure, it’ll be hard work (the labour, the lack of sleep, the permanence..) but it’ll be nothing like scrabbling under the bed at 11pm trying to coax out a puppy who is in another level of heaven with a plastic saw and a half eaten segment of wooden railway track.

On the downside I will have no one to lick my feet dry after my evening bath.

Sarah Wragg

Mother, wife, sister, daughter, writer, cook, seamstress, housekeeper, husband-manager. Renovating a house, holding down a job, raising two phenomenal humans. Having fun.

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