Week Eight: The Vaccines are within us…

Eight weeks. Two months. Sixty-ish days of nappies, night feeds, and navigating life with a tiny human who’s somehow already lifting his head like he’s training for baby yoga. And this week, we hit a milestone that felt both monumental and mildly terrifying: Hunter’s first round of vaccines.

I’d been bracing myself. Everyone had warned me. “You’ll cry as much as they do.” “It’s soul destroying.” “You’ll need a stiff drink after.” Even our lovely paediatric GP said she usually sheds a tear. So I walked into that appointment with my heart in my throat, clutching Hunter like I was about to hand him over to a medieval torture chamber.

But my boy? He was brave. As brave as his mummy, apparently — because when I had my vaccines, I giggled. (Yes, I’m that person. Needle phobia? Never met her.) And Hunter wasn’t far off. A few tears, a dramatic pause, and then… calm. No house-shaking screams. No dramatic flailing. Just a cuddle, a dose of Calpol, and a nap that could rival a hibernating bear.

Ah yes, Calpol. The gateway drug of childhood. Hunter’s first taste of that sugary, strawberry-flavoured magic. Lucky boy. I remember it vividly — sneaking into the medicine cabinet as a kid, convinced it was a forbidden treat. Not quite as elite as the banana medicine, but still top tier in the toddler pharmaceutical rankings. He took to it like a connoisseur. One sip and he looked at me like, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Now, let’s talk about the post-vaccine naps. Glorious. Deep. Uninterrupted. The kind of sleep that makes you question whether you’ve accidentally sedated your child. But they came with a price: the post-rotavirus vaccine poops. And let me tell you — they are not for the faint-hearted. We’re talking tsunami-level nappies. Waves of chaos. I’ve never moved so fast with a changing mat in my life. It was like a scene from a disaster movie, only with more wipes and less dignity. I considered calling in backup. Or a hazmat team. Or just surrendering and burning the onesie.

Still, it didn’t dampen our week. Hunter’s smile is getting bigger by the day — especially if you catch him at the right moment. And yes, I’m biased. But we’re allowed to be, right? He loves having his feet tickled and getting raspberries blown on his neck. Those are the golden ticket right now. I can’t resist, so he’s constantly being accosted by his very enthusiastic mother. I’m convinced he’s already learned to brace himself when he sees me coming.

This weekend marks our first “official engagement”: a wedding. Suited and booted, of course. Does anyone realise how hard it is to buy a suit for a baby? Seriously. As someone who works in network marketing, I should love online shopping. But baby clothes? No thank you. I don’t trust the sizing, the fabrics, or the photos. So off we went — John Lewis (no luck), Marks & Spencer (nope), Next… finally, a limited but promising selection. We bought two outfits. Because obviously. It’s a hazard of shopping for a babe — everything is too cute to resist. I came home with two suits, shoes, vests… all for Hunter. It would appear I no longer shop for myself. I’m now a personal stylist for a two-month-old.

And just when you think the week couldn’t get busier — it’s another first birthday. This time, it’s my nephew Jack, Hunter’s cousin. One whole year old. How? That’s wild. We couldn’t make the party meal, but we did get to celebrate with him on his actual birthday. There was a caterpillar cake. With ice cream. Iconic. Hunter was mesmerised by the candles, and I was mesmerised by the fact that I managed to eat a slice without sharing it. Small wins. Jack was in his element — bouncing, giggling, and covered in cake crumbs. It was one of those moments that makes you pause and think, “This is what it’s all about.”

We’ve made it through another week. And while it’s been full of smiles, milestones, and messy nappies, I’ll be honest — being a mummy gets lonely sometimes. You’re never alone, but you’re often on your own. It’s a strange kind of solitude. One filled with love, but also longing for adult conversation and a moment to breathe. I miss spontaneity. I miss silence. I miss sipping a hot drink without someone crying in the background. But I wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Motherhood is a paradox. It’s the most connected I’ve ever felt to another human, and yet the most disconnected I’ve ever felt from the world around me. It’s a constant balancing act — between self-care and baby care, between chaos and calm, between “I’ve got this” and “I’ve Googled six things in the last hour and still don’t know what I’m doing.” But I’m here. I’m showing up. And I’m learning to celebrate the small wins — like brushing my hair or drinking a cup of tea while it’s still warm.

So here’s to week eight: to brave babies, Calpol connoisseurs, wedding prep, and caterpillar cake. To the chaos, the cuddles, and the quiet moments in between. We might not have booked the holiday yet, but we’re packing memories every single day.

Until next week — when I’ll probably be writing from a wedding, covered in baby drool and trying not to cry during the vows. Wish us luck.

“There are places in the heart you don’t even know exist until you love a child.” — Anne Lamott