London North East One From a well-known unknown corner of London

Oh So Quiet

I've just spent the last two hours trying to make the boy burp. I also have a job that'll take me through to Christmas with Channel 5. The two things are entirely unrelated, but are both notable in their own right. Apart from that, it's just a case of the three of us finding our way - relearning each other's needs and generally looking a bit tired. I had an odd experience walking somewhere or other some day or other ago (times and places seem to be a bit of a blur at the moment) where I suddenly realised that I wasn't surprised by the way he looked ... it was almost as if I knew he'd look like that, or I'd dreamt it or something. You could, naturally, put that down to lack of sleep and the zen like state I get into when I'm walking - the two things are a dangerous combination.

The traumas seem like a lifetime ago, but it's only been two and a half weeks. Since then I've been concerning myself with the never ending cycles of feeding and sleeping and bathing and nappy changing, constantly wondering whether we're 'doing it right' and then reminding myself there's no such thing - but we're doing it, and getting it all done, and beginning, gradually, baby-step by baby-step, to get some sleep at night.

I probably haven't considered my time management in that much detail, but this morning, when I was looking into my calm clean fed son's eyes all I could think was that I can't even consider leaving him for more than two or three hours at a time. That, obviously, is not conducive to a good business. However, for the next 10 weeks I'm going to be forced to, for at least three days a week, so I suppose we could consider this as the establishment of some sort of routine, if only for me.

Mrs D of course performed a miracle recovery, much to the surprise and delight of doctors and consultants and midwives - but I have to keep reminding myself to watch carefully. I don't want to stop her doing things she wants to do, but there is still concern that she'll overdo it. Two heart attacks and three complete blood transfusions have got to take it out of you (literally) and there is continuous concern in the back of my head that two and a half weeks is not time to even begin to recover from that, let alone appear perfectly healthy and normal - which she does.

Help is there if we need it, but we're both so stubborn and bloody-minded (a trait we now share with the boy) that we won't ask for it. Not yet, anyway. We're determined to do this our way, and the enforced input from midwives and health visitors is more than enough to be ignoring for now, without the helpful suggestions and comments of family and friends. Don't want to be rude or nuffink, but there's so much conflicting information out there ...

It's going to be all about time management. Something I've been very frivolous with in the past. But I crave normality, when I can go wandering again, and pontificate on the pointless. Soon.