The cup (Part IV)

Within a couple of days we’d settled into a routine and our little ‘un got used to the different surrounds. She didn’t seem to mind the port-a-cot too much but refused all solids, perhaps because her throat was sore, although she didn’t mind the odd Marie biscuit.

I breastfed her every two hours and put her down so she could nap, so it was a bit like when she was a newborn. Except I’d stopped taking the wretched Domperignon and I had so little by way of milk to offer that I could see her buckling under the exhaustion of having to suckle so hard and my heart broke that little bit more.

And my Mum kept calling to see if her favourite girl (i.e. not me) was OK until my husband got annoyed with the constant phone calls, so she took to SMSing instead. And the clothes that I’d brought our little ‘un were too Summery because it was actually in the high thirties in Melbourne (that’s well over 95 degrees Fahrenheit for our North American readers) but I’d forgotten that it’s always colder at The Peninsula. So she wore the same grotty pink cardie all week because it was the warmest thing she had. She even slept in it and I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t passively aggressively insisted that we bring the heater. And I wore my woollen Pilates pants with three t-shirts one on top of the other and the same grotty brown cardie and the only pair of socks I’d thought to bring. I slept in this outfit too. And still dreamt that I was being eaten alive by Daddy Longlegses even though I was covered from head to toe.

Anyway, the cup and saucer. We’d been out for dinner for my husband’s birthday at a nearby winery that specialised in fine dining. My treat, it was Saturday night and I’d booked for an early sitting.

Unfortunately, in two hours of flustered packing with my little ‘un crying on my chest in the sling, I hadn’t thought to pack anything really nice to wear. So it was a combo of my favourite denim skirt, a mint-green shirt, some earrings which I usually adore because they are handmade and have four-leafed clovers on them and I am ordinarily very aware of how lucky I am but, to be honest, that night I just felt slovenly. The fact that I also had to wear the grotty brown cardie that I’d been wearing all week which was also now covered in shiny snail tracks of little ‘un’s snot on the shoulders did not help.

Looking back I might have been able to carry it off had I just smiled breezily and enjoyed the champagne and the ambience. Looking back, the big vertical fold in the middle of my forehead was probably the biggest giveaway.

Mercifully, the spangly sylph-like blondes laughing over pre-hen’s night dinner champagnes on the balcony didn’t seem to notice as they glided past making cooing noises at my little ‘un, who was smiling for the first time in a week.

And our waitress was very sympathetic, asking if we needed a high chair, making sure our meals came out quickly, topping up my water glass, asking if we were OK. My husband got a bit annoyed after a while, felt she was being a bit cloying, and in all the fuss she did forget to bring out the bread but to be honest I appreciated the sympathy. Although a big part of me couldn’t wait to get out of there and go home where my suffering would be less public.