Week Three: He’s A Real Boy
Week three of motherhood and I’m still standing—well, swaying slightly, clutching a lukewarm cup of tea, and wearing yesterday’s leggings, but standing nonetheless. And what a week it’s been! We’ve hit a major milestone: Hunter has been officially registered. He’s now a real boy, a fully-fledged member of society, and quite frankly, the most spectacular addition to the Brackstone clan.
Hunter Paul. My little miracle. My heart in human form. I still catch myself staring at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world (which, let’s be honest, he is). Each coo, each gummy smile, each dramatic sneeze—it’s all magic. I never knew joy could be so tiny, so wriggly, and so capable of producing such impressive quantities of laundry.
Sleep-wise, Hunter continues to be an absolute legend. He’s down to one night feed, which feels like winning the parenting lottery. The early morning wake-up around 5:30–6:00 AM doesn’t even count—I used to be up at that time for work anyway, except now I’m not ironing blouses or hunting for matching socks. I’m curled up with my baby, soaking in the quiet before the day begins. It’s a luxury I didn’t know I needed, and I’m savouring every second of it (even if I do occasionally miss the thrill of a hot coffee and adult conversation).
It’s wild to think that Hunter was actually due this week. Instead, he made his grand entrance three weeks early—because why not keep things interesting? My waters broke mid-pedicure (yes, really), and like any sensible woman, I stayed to finish the manicure and get my brows done. Priorities, people. 💅🏼 Thirty-nine hours later, after a forceps delivery in theatre and a rollercoaster of emotions, I met my son. That moment—when they placed him in my arms—was like every dream I’d ever had came true in one heartbeat. And yes, I cried. And yes, I still cry. Often while holding a muslin cloth and wondering if I’ve put the steriliser on.
In the spirit of new beginnings, I’ve reached out to our local parish church to arrange Hunter’s christening. We’ve chosen a charming little church in Upham, Hampshire, with just the right amount of rustic charm and photogenic stonework. Granny, ever the sentimental hero, has unearthed the family christening gown made by Great Granny herself. It’s been lovingly washed and prepped, ready for Hunter to wear. The idea of him being wrapped in generations of love (and lace) makes my heart swell. I’m crossing everything—fingers, toes, baby socks—that we can have him christened before Christmas. I can already picture the scene: twinkly lights, festive cheer, and Hunter looking like a Victorian cherub in his heirloom gown.
And because I clearly enjoy overcommitting to wholesome activities, I’ve also registered Hunter for swimming lessons. I’m a big believer in water confidence from an early age—plus, I’m secretly hoping he’ll become a mini paddleboarding prodigy. Water has always been my happy place, whether I’m kayaking, swimming, or just floating aimlessly while pretending I’m in a spa. I want Hunter to feel that same freedom and joy. I can already see him splashing about, giggling, and possibly peeing in the pool (we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it).
If you’re curious about the benefits of baby swimming, there are some brilliant resources out there:
Apparently, water play helps with sensory development and bonding. I say anything that tires them out and makes bath time less of a scream-fest is worth a try.
This week has also been full of those quiet, golden moments—the kind you want to bottle up and keep forever. Hunter’s starting to show little quirks: the way he furrows his brow like he’s solving quantum physics, or how he lights up when he hears my voice (even if I’m just singing the theme tune to “Bluey” for the 47th time). His personality is beginning to peek through, and I’m obsessed.
Motherhood continues to be a wild ride—equal parts exhaustion and elation. The tiredness is real, but it’s the kind that comes with purpose. I’ve learned to lean on my family, who’ve been absolute lifesavers. Granny swoops in for cuddles and emergency laundry duty, while Grandad dispenses parenting wisdom and questionable jokes. Their support has made this transition smoother, and their love for Hunter is a joy to witness.
So here’s to week three: to registration forms, christening plans, swimming dreams, and the kind of love that makes your heart feel too big for your chest. The adventure is just beginning, and I’m so excited to see where it takes us.
Each day is a new page in our story, and I’m writing it with Hunter—one cuddle, one giggle, one nappy change at a time. He’s already brought so much joy, tradition, and purpose into our lives, and I know this is only the beginning. As I watch him grow, wrapped in heirloom lace and splashing in chlorinated glory, I’m reminded of the beauty of fresh starts and the magic of family.
Because as Henry David Thoreau so perfectly put it, “Every child begins the world again.” And with Hunter, our world feels brand new. ❤️
