The second first cut

I twist the silky hair around my finger causing it to curl in on itself.  A perfect ringlet.  I twist it longer than necessary.  Hesitating.  I comb it out and start again.  This time with a slightly smaller section knowing I need three pieces of evidence.  Hesitating.

I started so matter-of-factly.  Collecting my tools, setting the scene, arranging the distraction of teeth brushing.  But when it comes to it, I hesitate.

Pete looks away, "just do it."

One last twist and I do.

It comes away so easy.  The perfect silky brown circle tucked in a bright white envelope.  Like so many mums have done before.  A rite of passage for parent more than child.  A universal moment.


Strictly speaking, the first cut happened months ago.  A hasty snip in the early hours of the morning when shampooing dried vomit wasn't a viable option.  Another universal moment.  Another rite of passage.  Tidied away unceremoniously.


And it's done.  With three snips he's a little boy.

Falling

Turns out there is an edge to the map and it is possible to fall off.

I fell off.

Hard.

Maybe you noticed.

I was recently told when a baby is born, two infants are born.  The baby itself and the new mom.  Throughout the first two years the baby and mom share a sense of time and discovery.  Time seems to stretch on and on and on.  Everything is new and hard and frustrating and fascinating.

This moment is all there has ever been and all that will be.

That is what postpartum depression feels like for me.  This constant barrage of new and hard and frustrating and fascinating is all I can remember and all I see ahead.  There is no relief and nothing is familiar anymore.  Not my home, not my body, not myself.  It's the lack of familiarity and the inability to find the familiar which causes deep sadness.  A grief of sorts.

For me, postpartum depression is like falling off the edge of my own map.  Before Pruin I knew every corner of that map.  I knew the shortcuts.  I knew the ravines and the beautiful places and how to navigate between them.  I knew, to a degree (and not to push the metaphor too far), how to find myself.  Where to find safe places and where to avoid.

My world changed and it didn't come with a map.

Being a new mom is being an explorer.  The wardrobe and landscape aren't glamorous or exotic.  Definitely not a page out of National Geographic or Indiana Jones, but it is exploration complete with dirt & grime, rugged outings, indecipherable babble, cultural misunderstanding, and life-changing moments.

Part of the explorer gig is recording and reporting back.  In the deepest, darkest moments of my fall I was unable to record and report.  Survival was the priority.  In my experience fieldwork & exploration always comes with a period of pure survival.

The analogy of new mom as explorer is perhaps a bit romantic, a tad over-reaching.
However, it is exactly how I feel.  Permanently relocated to an uncharted territory trying to survive and thrive without a map or direction or promise of relief supplies.

After 15 months out here in the wild I might be closer to drafting a new map.  Everyday is still about survival, but I might be starting to thrive a bit as well.

Despair & Wonder

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I want to go on record as saying  that my son is a pretty cool little guy.

I realize you may not get this impression based on what I write here.  I admit the trying moments are much easier to write about than the good ones.  A common problem I'm sure.

There is a lot of despair involved with parenting.  (I say, with my 10.5 months of experience. Ha!)  There is also a lot of amazement and wonder.

one of the first photos of us together, despair & wonder rolled into one

Partially at our ability to keep him alive and safe and partially at his development into his own little self.  Watching him marvel at a blade of grass, discovering the fridge magnets, or his pure joy at emptying a drawer of hats and scarves is immensely enjoyable.  Savouring & documenting first mud stains and busted lips and bruised knees seems ridiculous and necessary.

And yet, I pause so infrequently to appreciate the journey this little man is going through.  While I complain it is all about him, a lot of the time it is all about me.  He doesn't need us to stay home so he can nap in the cot, Mummy needs him to nap in the cot because he'll sleep longer and she'll get a longer break.  But the reality is a 40 minute buggy nap while mummy sits in the sun reading a magazine is actually more restorative than an hour cot nap while mummy runs around the house like a mad woman so she can rest unfettered by the guilt of household chores for all of 10 minutes.

I can barely remember what my life was before this guy.  The horrid nights of crying on the bath mat are fading as well.  I long for a time when I won't be exhausted and can be a person on my own again.  But then I realize this won't happen.  He is permanently with me.  On the few occasions I leave the house without him he is still with me.  I see other mums and give them a smile that says, 'I feel you,' and they look at me like a crazy person because they don't see my invisible son.  They don't see that I am a mum too.

Sometimes I look at him and can't believe I am his mum.  That I am the person that can soothe him when he falls, that he actually wants to be with me all the time.  Me.  The woman who would rather not have to deal with children is obsessed with a child.

I live for nap time and take it personally when he only sleeps for 40 minutes.  But the look on his face when I walk into his room...I mean.  It's like he's won the lottery.  He doesn't know I'm selfish and require an extraordinary amount of 'me time' and that 40 minutes isn't going to keep mummy from going crazy.  All he knows is that his mummy has appeared and it's like Christmas to him. If he knew what Christmas meant.

It doesn't quite make up for the exhaustion at present, but I can see a glimmer of a future in which it will all seem worth it.



...back to your originally scheduled programming of parenting despair and mishaps.

110 mummy minutes

Teething nap.  As desperately typed into an iPhone on 18th of February.


First 20 minutes: screaming and crying in the cot, trying to escape.

Next 10: screaming and crying on mummy while mummy cries and sings.

Next 20: asleep on mummy while she fumes about being stuck on an uncomfortable stool in a dark nursery. iPhone only has 13% charge. She calculates how long it's been since she last ate anything (6 hours).  Gets more annoyed. Seethes about how unfair it is that she doesn't get any break today while simultaneously kicking herself for being a selfish jerk.  Poor little guys has tiny bones ripping through his gums.

Next 20: finds a moderately more comfortable position which means legs up on the side of the cot.  Uses precious little battery life to tweet situation because misery loves company and she isn't one to suffer in silence.
Baby stirs and she instinctively holds her breath because as uncomfortable as she is, she isn't ready to deal with baby just yet.

Next 20: hugs baby a little closer despite butt going numb and back screaming.  Getting over her self-pity at not getting a break today because really, how often does she get to snuggle the little guy these days and as annoyed as she is, it is kind of nice to have an excuse to not get anything 'constructive' done.  Really, teething must be a real downer for the little guy and he deserves some relief.  Maybe she dozes a little.

Actually enjoys the quiet time although s low blood sugar headache is starting to kick in and she's getting really thirsty and a tiny bit concerned about how and when she'll get to eat.  Really needing to pee and the rainstorm white noise isn't helping.

Starting to get uncomfortable again. Comfy feelings are starting to fade as she realizes the day he finally starts napping longer she can't take advantage of the break.

Last 20: All calm and loving feelings quickly disappearing as bladder gets more uncomfortable and headache increases. Throat and lips unbearably dry now. Back is starting to scream again.  Legs going numb from being propped up on the cot for an hour and a half.

Baby wakes, bleary eyed.  Cries until he realizes it's mummy holding him.  Gives a sleepy smile and starts crying again just in case she thought it might be an easier afternoon.

Fear

I recently returned to my yoga class.  Or at least my yoga teacher.  I attend the 'beginner' class after Charlie goes to bed.  I have only made it three times in three months so 'return' is a loose description but I made it two weeks in a row.

Tonight I did two poses I was never able to do before I was pregnant, or at least not confidently.

Maybe the fear is gone, because let's face it, after having a child what's scary about a few yoga poses, or maybe I'm stronger than I thought after lifting Charlie all these months or maybe I found a way to really be in my yoga practice.

Whatever it was, I did these poses without thought or fear and did them confidently.


There's a lesson there, I think.

An ending and beginning

It has happened.
It was inevitable.

Charlie has now been 'out' longer than he was 'in.'
We marked the milestone with an 'un-birthday' party.

It seems like an ending of sorts.

Or at the very least it seems a good time to reflect on the past 18ish months.

It's probably no secret that I didn't love being pregnant.  I never really got the glowy thing going.  I was sick at the beginning and in pain in the middle and then spent the last month having 'practice' contractions.

I'm not big on birth stories and I have put off writing mine in any detail but maybe the time has come to share a few things about dear little man's birth.

Like most preggos I was ready for the pregnant part to be over.  It's just so uncomfortable.  However, I wasn't ready for what came after.  Naively, I wasn't afraid of labour.  I knew it would end eventually, either naturally or with medical assistance.  I was, however, terrified of having to keep a little human alive.  I have never been a 'baby-person.'  I'm still not, really.  I love my son to pieces but that's about where it ends when it comes to me and babies.

At the end of my labour, after having pushed for three hours with no success and being man-handled in surgical theatre by at least twenty people, I was terrified.  I was so tired.  Things had not gone to plan to say the least, my calm homebirth having been scrapped 12 hours earlier when I started bleeding heavily.  I was crying and incoherent.  In an attempt to calm me, someone said, 'Just a few more minutes and you'll meet your baby.'

I appreciate the gesture and maybe that works for a lot of women.  For me it made everything worse.  One way or another, and it was looking very likely to be 'another,' this little being was coming into the world and I knew I wasn't ready.

And then he was here.  They put this little, hairy, bloody thing on my chest and I felt...nothing.  He was whisked away immediately because he wasn't breathing (silly thing had got his cord wrapped around his neck twice).  Within seconds he was crying and back with me, but I still felt nothing.  There was no rush of 'happy hormones' or relief or joy.  He was crying and I didn't know what to do.  I couldn't feel the lower half of my body and I was exhausted.

The next eight days in hospital were some of the hardest I have ever experienced.

It took a long time for me to bond with this little human.  For months I was going through the motions, making it up as I went along, stubbornly refusing to get all mushy about this little guy, but determined to do everything 'right.'

How silly.

The most important thing I have learned in the last nine months is loving my son is way easier than I thought it would be, especially when I get out of my own way.  These past nine months have been so hard and exhausting with very little respite.  I struggle with my selfishness and my need to make him and Pete happy everyday.

The unbirthday marked a ending of sorts but also a beginning.

Almost immediately after his party, Charlie's personality began to appear.  Most of the time it's cheeky and mischievous, but it is also sweet.  It seems to have come on very quickly. It's a constant learning curve and I always feel behind. I can't imagine how it will all change again in another 9 months.

I don't have any pithy or clever endings today but maybe that is appropriate for this loopy journey I am riding.

A Medium World

It's happening again.

The 'I-have-no-career-angst.'

For a few months now it wasn't such a big deal.  I was kept super busy whether I liked it or not and while I would occasionally think about whether I wanted to be a 'stay-at-home-mom' (*gasp*) I didn't have the luxury of lingering on the thought for too long.

I was having conversations/complainings with other mums and I didn't feel left out of the world. Amazing how pooping, eating, sleeping, playing, teething can make you feel included.

But now that time is coming to an end.

I always knew it would.

Now the conversations are about going back to work, conversations with bosses, nurseries, nannies, child minders, work clothes, commuting. And once again I am no longer part of the world.

My world has suddenly shrunk down to Mr. Man and our little routine and our little life.

Sometimes I despair. Days when nothing keeps him entertained and I haven't peed on my own in weeks and I'm wearing the same outfit of stretch jeans, slippers, and ill-fitting jumpers for the fifth day running, I despair. When I realize I haven't had a conversation with anyone over an age counted in months for an entire day, I despair. When I occasionally meet new people and they inevitably ask 'what do you do?' and I watch their eyes search for someone else to when my answer includes the word 'kid,' I despair. Sometimes I even feel left out of my husband's life. I am so focused on this little human I don't have the energy left for anyone else, my husband and myself included. And I despair.

If having this little guy has taught me anything it is that life is dynamic. It will change and shift and drag you along. Sometimes kicking and screaming, sometimes unknowingly.

Sometimes I long for the luxury of lingering over a cup of coffee (okay, every morning) and being part of a bigger world of having a little something for myself of being able to carry a conversation that doesn't deal with stages of human development.

And then my son gets bored of his current toy, climbs into my lap and snuggles in to suck his thumb and watch some cartoons.


Maybe just a medium world, then.

Sometimes

Friday was a good day.

It was a good day in that nothing-special-happened-but-life-is-good way.

Naps went well. (This element is always a factor in whether or not a day is 'good' or 'rough.') We played easily with no forced engagement on either side. I got some chores done and managed to do something for myself during naptime. I ate regularly and even missed my son a bit when his nap ran long.

It was a good day.

I didn't once reminisce about my life pre-baby or wonder what it will become. I wasn't planning beyond the next few hours and I think I even smiled a bit to myself.

Life was good and I enjoyed it.

Returning to you

On the first day of this year I took a bath.

A bath.

Amazing.

I was probably only submerged for as long as it took to fill the tub (these free-standing claw-foot tubs are fabulous but take ages to fill) but it was long enough and hot enough to activate my deodorant.  I read a three page article while bath toys trapped in their mesh bag floated at my feet and the IKEA crocodile bath mat embedded squares in my soft backside.

Amazing.


Next week my little boy will be eight months old.

Eight months.

That time is marked by a visible increase in my silver highlights and eye cream consumption.  The majority of which can be attributed to a *lovely* sleep regression four months ago which lasted six weeks and probably took six years off our lives.  There is nothing more soul-destroying than your baby waking up five or six times a night (each wake-up lasting about an hour) for weeks on end.

Two words: SLEEP & TRAINING

If you pick the right time, which is usually just about the time you seriously consider going on holiday and leaving the baby to fend for itself (I mean you're pricing up tickets online serious), it isn't too bad.  I mean it's never easy to listen to your child cry, we went in periodically to sing and pat and say 'there, there,' but when we finally decided to go for it, it only took two nights.

You may have noticed I stopped writing about four months ago.  Coincidence? I think not.


However lack of sleep is the only culprit.  The halt in writing also coincides with an identity crisis.

I didn't make many declarations about the kind of mom I planned to be before Pruin was born.  I figured I would lessen my inevitable mommy-guilt.  However, one thing I did declare was to not loose my identity in my child.  For example, I would never make any 'profile photo' a photo of my son.  I would not refer to myself as Pruin's mom.  It's a small thing, but it felt important to me.  It took me until after the regression (almost five months) to allow myself to put a photo of my son as a background on my phone.  Which still seems silly as I see him every waking moment of my life.  However, when those waking moments are a little too much it is nice to have a reminder that he is cute sometimes.

I can hear all you parents laughing at me. Go on. I will probably do the same to those that come after me.

What I realize now is that it is impossible to not loose yourself in your new baby.  Especially if you are parenting without any family/friend help.  Not because they are too cute and squishy and wonderful (which they are when they are sleeping) but because they require every ounce of your being, body and soul and mind.  I don't want this space to turn into constant complaints about the slog that is early parenthood but in case you haven't experienced this particular life experience let me just cut to the point and say it can be pretty grim and at times even the smiles and giggles and amazing moments of watching this thing become a person aren't enough to keep you going. When you're shaking with rage and exhaustion at 4am, a smile is not enough.

But time ticks away and suddenly it's time for the next step, whatever that may be, and you find some more energy and patience as you dive/stumble into this next phase.  You have new things to stress over and the list from before seems to take care of itself as you obsess over purees or crawling or whatever.

It's at this point that you also realize that it might be time for you to take some time for yourself.  Get that baby out of the baby bath and into the big tub so the possibility of taking a relaxing grown up bath is actually a reality that won't require shifting too much baby stuff.  Take back that glorious free-standing tub.  Go out and face those changing rooms and get yourself a pair of jeans without elastic tummy panels. Yes, I'm still wearing my maternity jeans.  I haven't been able to face a changing room and discovering that my shape has forever changed and I no longer have any idea which brand of jeans, let alone size, will now fit.

But I made myself find the time to write and I took a bath for purely relaxation purposes.  So that's something.

Mum Life

Thursday night I got a taste of what it's like to be a mum.  Odd to say since I have technically been a mum for 21 weeks but that night it got real.  The baby was at the tail end of his cold, still fussy and sicky, but generally a happy chappy.  The husband came home sick.  At first I thought it was a case of man-flu.  

Within a half-hour I was feeling a right bitch and wetting muslins.  He had proper chills with uncontrollable shaking and a wicked fever high enough for me to consider a hospital visit.  I semi-rushed through the baby's night routine attempting to maintain a sense of calm and sending out signals that everything is okay, Daddy is just not helping tonight, but EVERYTHING IS OKAY.

Then I turned my attention to husband violently shivering under a duvet on the couch. I have no idea what to do to break a fever.  Do I feed it, starve it, stuff it in a bath, or a bag?  I can never remember the catchy phrases when it's crunch time.  

I Google it.  

Turns out he shouldn't be under the duvet or drinking juice or necessarily eating the emergency pizza I heated up.  

To add to my stress, our expensive, top of the line, baby monitor crapped out the night before so I'm just hoping the baby decides tonight is the night to sleep a bit more peacefully. Failing that, our house isn't that big, I'll hear him scream if he's really upset.  It's time he learns to settle himself anyway at the ripe old age of 4 and a bit months, right?  

Luckily, the baby is quite for now.  I make up the spare bed and coax husband off the couch, up the stairs and into bed. I leave him with some water, paracetemol, a bucket and his phone to text me if he needs anything.  

Back downstairs I scarf down some cold pizza and make myself a bourbon.  I catch the bead of liquid running down the side of the bottle on my finger, at £30 a bottle it's precious stuff.  Instead of a smooth oaky nectar I get sickly sweet strawberry.

Calpol.

I sip my bourbon, absently watching whatever channel was absently left on in the midst of the evening.  I think about how I have no idea what I am doing, thank the universe for Google, and decide to head up to bed.

Before I pull up the duvet I do the rounds.  Husband's fever is still raging, but the violent chills have left.  No hospital trip, then.  I leave him with a promise that I will check on him every time I'm up with the baby.  Next stop, nursery.  Baby is still breathing and seems peaceful enough.

Day is done.
All is well.
Safely Rest.

As I snuggle into bed, somewhat relaxed and calm, confident I made it through, I glance at the clock.

It was only 9pm.


The long night was still before me.  The frazzled mom montage was only paused, a brief respite before my 'Groundhog Day' began again.

Month Four

This is the month I fell in love with my son.

This is the month I seriously considered giving him back.  

These two feelings are strongly linked.  It's hard to admit motherhood might be a bit too hard when you aren't sure you love the thing giving you crow's feet and melting your brain.  Once that thing giggles and naked-rolls it's way into your heart you don't feel like such a monster saying you need some time off.  

I need some time off.  

Better yet, I need more than two hours of consecutive sleep.  

baby unibrow & mum's crazy eyes with extra bags

"Things get better after three months, trust me."

I now know this statement's only purpose is to keep new parents from devouring their young.

We have hit some milestones this month.  Rolling is one of them.  Sleeping well at night is not.  Napping is better but they only last 20 minutes which is just enough time for me to get in and out of the bathroom, throw some wet, forgotten laundry back into the washer, and maybe stuff some cold leftovers in my face.  

We also now have a schedule of activities for the week.  These are great for distracting Pruin and giving him something other than me to look at for at least 30 minutes.  Theses are also great for building Pruin's immune system.  We are currently experiencing our first baby cold courtesy of the noise-making toys passed around at library song time.  A bucket full of toys slobbered and sneezed and puked on by a variety of children and then safely stored away to incubate for another week.  Every time they come around I am loathe to accept but also don't want to be 'that' mom sanitizing everything her baby touches.  I mean, the kid chews his toes directly after sticking them in the mess that is his nappy.  I really can't be too precious when it comes to germs.  

In a lot of ways this month feels like a huge step backwards.  Sleep has gone from iffy to bad and mummy has gone from high functioning multi-tasker to blank stare baby-babbler.  Sleep is always the measuring stick.  If sleep is going wrong we forget all the amazing things the baby is doing 'right.'  I take it personally that my child isn't sleeping.  As over-achievers it is hard to accept that our little one can't figure out how to sleep and we can't figure out how to help him.

We are obsessed.
We are very tired.
We have aged five years in four months.
We are probably making it worse.


But even on my worst sleep deprived mornings when I've had a total of three hours of sleep and have to take an exam about Life in the UK or spend the morning at the embassy proving I'm an American, I could never devour this little guy.  He's too damn cute (and cannibalism is seriously frowned upon in both the UK and America).

Month Three

We are now in that month in which everyone assured us 'things' would get better.

Better is subjective.


Feeding is easier but it also has a new angle now that Pruin is aware of the world and wants to see it all, even while feeding.

Sleeping is quieter but still unpredictable and nap training is even harder with three months of sleep deprivation under one's belt.  We are actively encouraging 'bad' habits just so we can all get a bit of sleep.

Additionally, now he wants to play and mummy isn't great at entertaining when it doesn't involve cocktail shakers and amusing anecdotes.

The books say mummy should be fully healed and recovered from the delivery and resuming moderate exercise.


Who are these people writing these books?

At three months it still hasn't sunk in that we are parents to this little person.  We are responsible for keeping him fed and dry and happy.  No one is coming to tell us we have done enough and done well, they'll take over from here and we can go back to our previously scheduled life.

Simultaneously, I am acutely aware that his sleeping and eating habits rest solely on my shoulders.  Teaching him to eat and nap 'properly' is all on me.  No matter how supportive and involved Pete is (and he is both) in these first months it's mummy who sets the tone and schedule for the day.  It's mummy who enforces (or, more likely, gives in) and decides which battles are worth fighting and which are worth leaving for another month.

Is it the worst thing in the world to feed him into his morning nap or lay down with him for his late afternoon nap?  These are some of the 'bad' habits I am encouraging but at this point I'm just happy if we get some sleep that doesn't involve screaming.  Although we have a lot of that as well.


It doesn't get better.

It gets harder.  There are more balls in the air with every passing day.

It also gets more rewarding.  We are watching him become a person.


And that makes the 'failures' in sleeping and eating that much harder to accept.

Mother's Hands

This is the week I realized my life took a turn I expected but is still unexpected.

I think it began with my hands.

Each morning I bring Pruin into bed with me for his last few hours of sleep.  He smiles and giggles and strains and yawns.  There he lies squirming with my hand on his chest until he gives in to sleep.  My hand reminds me how small he still is despite his growth spurts and weight gain.  My hand almost covers his entire torso, proving comfort to both him and I.

My hand is brown and spidery next to his fresh, smooth skin reminding me of the song from which we took his nickname.  It bears the scars of my life's adventures.  A life which indirectly led to these mornings.  It looks 'old.' But everything looks 'old' next to his newness.

Some days feel never-ending.  I long for bedtime only to dread it when I finally put my head down.  There's no knowing how long I have until he needs me again.  Other days flash by and he suddenly no longer fits into his newborn clothes.  What remains constant are the days themselves.  Everyday is just a copy of the one before with minor variation.  It isn't until I look back that I see where 'progress' has been made.  Although what we are progressing toward is still foggy.  Everyday I begin again with no real clue about what I am working toward.  There is no hard deadline.  The benchmarks are vague and only visible once you pass them.

I still don't think of myself as a mother (Despite referring to myself in the third person as 'mummy.'  And not just to Pruin but to adults and in conversations not pertaining to babies or parenting. A thing which I said I would never do. The first of many, I fear).  Yes, I know I have this little Pruin to take care of daily, but the identity of 'mummy' hasn't fixed itself to my brain as of yet.

Or, more likely, my pre-Pruin ideas of what 'mother' meant haven't materialized and so this new life seems, well, unexpected.

I keep trying to fit Pruin into my life.  Trying to hold on to what I was and did before...him.

Inevitably, I fail.  Instead, I find I have to craft a new life.  Keeping important and meaningful bits from before and letting the rest fall away.  Or maybe just packing it away for later.  Not unlike preparing for a move or spring cleaning but with less tangible clutter.

At times my hands itch to be free of his.  To do their own thing as they did before he arrived.  But this little man has a tight grip.  If I can't find a way to do it one-handed, it will have to wait.  Maybe forever, but hopefully not.

Month Two (+5)

Last night marked the end of a beautiful run of sleep.  Little man had been sleeping six to seven hours a night.  Quietly.  It was amazing.  We were trying to ignore this miracle in case we jinxed the run.  We needn't have bothered, the heat did it for us.

This mini heat wave caused a power cut last night.   That in itself wasn't the end.

Apparently when the power goes out an alarm goes on at the school across the street.

A very loud alarm.

While we laid awake cursing the noise and the heat, Pruin remained blissfully asleep.  I won't lie, I was a little bit jealous.

Eventually the alarm turned off.  That silence revealed two separate car alarms going off in the background.  Little Man rustled, but clung to sleep.

Finally, only one car alarm remained.  Little Man rustled and added grunting but we thought we were in the clear.

When silence prevailed, Little Man wailed.

If we weren't so hot and tired we would have laughed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This past month offered up so many gifts.  Pruin is smiling and 'talking.'  Almost giggling.  He recognizes Mum and Dad and gets shy when he catches his reflection in the mirror.  He also recognizes the iPhone since we stick it in his face so often.  He now watches TV.  We aren't so pleased with this development.  Especially since we don't get to watch it very often.

Two days ago he spent five minutes chewing my finger.  I'm not looking forward to what comes next.

Yesterday he almost rolled over.  The excitement in the room was perhaps disproportionate.  We are easily amused these days.


The routine of Feed, Burp, Change, Cuddle remains.

The rewards are a bit greater this month, but it isn't all bliss.  Last month I couldn't believe this was my life now.  This month it's hare to remember my life being anything but this little man.  I admit it isn't always a happy thought.  On days he won't sleep and insists on day long cuddles I wish for a day off.  Or just a few hours.  I'm desperate for a haircut.  I remember when clothes fit and I could sit and walk without pain and mourn the loss of my weekly yoga class and daily runs.

Then there are the days he sleeps easily, giving me a bit of time to myself (even if it isn't completely relaxing), and wakes with a smile and almost giggle.  It isn't a haircut and I still can't sit easily, but it is something.

Watching a little human develop into a little person is a pretty amazing something.

Exhausting and frustrating, but amazing.

Safe is where I'll keep you

A thermometer in your crib 

(which reads too hot)

The sturdy pram

(because the streets of London are rough)

A thermometer in your room

(which reads too cold)

Two baby books

(because it would be irresponsible to completely wing it)

A thermometer in your bath

(which only gives three options)

Bumpers in your crib

(to which the health worker says no, but your flailing arms say yes)

One Bourbon

(because it would be irresponsible to completely stress out)

Breast milk

(because, luckily, we can)

The video monitor

(because sleeping quietly is rare for you and mummy and daddy worry)

20 minute breathing checks

(see above)

A red bit of string

(to keep away evil spirits)

Suck it!

The other day some NCT buddies (and babies) met up in a local beer garden.  It was the usual scene, partners getting in a few precious minutes of baby time after work, mums chatting about the parent room in John Lewis and others wrangling babies and over-sized muslins to breastfeed while sipping at a much deserved microbrew and daring any of the other patrons to judge.

I was one of the latter and while balancing my son on the boob and sipping my precious half-pint I overheard this snippet between two of the dads, "I never realized how hard breastfeeding would be."


I've heard this before from new moms but I never really understood how difficult it could be to accomplish this seemingly completely natural task.  Much like childbirth itself. Just because it's 'natural' doesn't mean it's easy.

In our group of eight couples three babies are exclusively breastfed, the others benefit from both breast and formula.  In our group there were two tongue-tied babies, two mums suffering from nipple thrush, at least two struggling to produce enough milk and three mums with mastitis.

Pruin enjoyed a nice long feed on the boob a few minutes after he was born.  He wouldn't experience that again for another six days.



The first day and night, I'm ashamed to report, I was so drugged I forgot to feed my son.

I forgot to feed my newborn baby.

In fact, it didn't even occur to me to feed him.  I remember trying to hold his little hand while I slept but was too weak and exhausted to keep my arm lifted to his hospital-grade bassinet.

I don't recall him crying much (or at all) but I also don't recall much of those first hours.  When I could finally move again and had my head about me, I realized he might be hungry and we tried to eat.  It wasn't to happen.  Pruin had a rough entry into this world and had a sore head as a result.  Every time he tried to suckle he screamed in pain.   I cried in frustration and the midwives unsuccessfully attempted to manhandle us both into some position that might work.

Nothing worked.

With every shift change another midwife would come and scold me for not feeding my baby and then, after manhandling him and me, realize it wasn't the fault of either of us, necessarily, but just not happening.
I spent hours hand expressing minuscule amounts of colostrum into a syringe.  One night in the early hours of the morning I was given an ancient pump and spent hours pumping slightly bigger amounts into what appeared to be plastic shot glasses for Pruin to then be syringe fed.

Every time we tried to get help another midwife would tell me I couldn't leave the hospital until he was properly feeding or we switched to formula.

There I was, feeling isolated and trapped, in my blue-curtained cubicle, still in a lot of pain from my ordeal, desperately trying to feed my son still in pain from his ordeal.  Each day felt like an eternity.  Every time we attempted to feed it was all screams from him and tears from me.  Yet another midwife telling me to calm down.  On night three a young student doctor told me (at 3am when I finally convinced someone to do something for my son) I cuddled my 3 day old son too much and this was why he wasn't eating.

On day four I had a full meltdown and was moved into a private room so my husband could stay with me beyond visiting hours as I still was having mobility issues and could barely hold my son, let alone feed him.  At this point we were cup feeding.  I would attempt breastfeeding for 20 frustrating minutes, then we would spend 20 stressful minutes trying to get Pruin to drink a few mils of expressed milk from a cup (and losing most of it) and then I would start expressing and we would do it all again 30 minutes later.

The night Pruin finally took the breast I had run out of expressed milk, popped two episiotomy stitches and had a midwife tell me I wouldn't be let out of hospital if he was still cup-feeding.  This was at 2am.  Pruin and I spent the rest of the night crying together while I held his head to my breast and begged him to eat something.  He screamed in my face. I continued to cry.  But eventually he did it.  It was such an ordeal that I couldn't even feel relief about our success.  There was just fear it was a fluke and wouldn't happen again.


Five weeks out from that night we still sometimes struggle with getting the right latch and I still worry about whether he is getting enough.  Every time we have a difficult time in the middle of the night (or the middle of the day) I have a momentary panic and remember those horrible days in the hospital. But we're doing it and he's fine.  If we never managed it he would be on formula and he would still be fine.

But if we never breastfed we would have missed the once in a lifetime experience of flashing a minor celebrity at a London landmark.  So there's that.

Why share this story?  Especially as I am not a fan of hearing women's sob stories about labour and beyond or advocating any particular point of child-rearing.

Maybe it's because it's breastfeeding awareness week, maybe because I'm an over-sharer and hypocrite.  Or maybe because that scene in the beer garden belied all the problems and trials many of those women experienced.  Because we new moms feel like we have to hide the trials and the tears and only appear blissfully happy even though it is a well discussed fact that we are not, necessarily.  If you look closer between the sips and tips, those moms are staring vacantly into the middle distance just trying to get through the present moment and dreading the next.


Because breastfeeding is hard.

Because being a new mom is hard.

Because you do what you have to do to get yourself and your family through the day (and night).



And if anyone ever tells you differently, you tell them Pruin said they can go suck it!

4 AM

If you came to our house in the wee hours of the morning you would find Pete asleep in bed, Pruin asleep in his basket next to the bed and me, naked but for a nursing bra, in my beautiful new bathroom rocking myself on the beautiful new bathmat.

I had gone in for a wee after putting Pruin down yet again and I hadn't been able to bring myself to return to the bedroom.  I got as far as the bathroom door before I burst into tears.


Sleep deprivation is a bitch.


All things considered, Pruin is a great baby.  He doesn't cry much, he goes down to sleep fairly easily, he's cute as hell.  However, at night, he sleeps in diminishing returns (3 hours, 2 hours, 1 hour, 30 minutes, etc.) and while he sleeps he grunts, whines, growls, snorts, chirps, all while fast asleep.

At 4 this morning I couldn't face going back into the room and listening to the mini wildlife preserve. Lying there, no sleeping and not needed by the little animal in the basket at present, but at any moment the animal imitation would switch to a convincing hungry baby.

I just needed a break.  Just a few minutes away from his constant needs.  But that is impossible, even when he's sleeping.  I no longer exist.  My needs fall to the end of the line behind this little man and my big man who has to maintain a work schedule.  Even my most basic needs of eating, sleeping, excreting are pushed aside.

So at 4 o'clock this morning I curled up on the bathmat to get some me time.  Just a few minutes when I couldn't hear him.  I still didn't get any sleep.  Eventually I had to vacate the bathroom as Pete had to get ready for work.

There were thoughts of failure for sure.  Because I needed a break.  Because I swore at my sleeping son. Because I was lying on the floor of my bathroom like a college freshman back from her first frat party.

I hate to tell you there is no happy ending here.  I didn't find any deep well of patience.  I wasn't restored after my stay on the bathmat.  I wasn't even able to see the humour in a grown woman hiding from her five week old in the bathroom.  I just went back in and numbly went about the business of taking care of my son knowing the day ahead would be another day of not sleeping and barely eating.  For both him and me.  This is my life.  I don't know if I have accepted that reality. But I am living the reality daily.


Sleep deprivation is a bitch.

Month one

Our little one is one month old today.  I have been a mother for a month.  It doesn't compute.

In the early days, in the middle of the night, when trying to comfort this little thing, while also trying not to cry out in pain from my own recovery and from exhaustion, I would think of him as someone else's.  Not a direct thought, but a delirious feeling that this couldn't be my life now. Forever.

Last night, Pruin slept in three hour intervals with no babbling.  We worked together, quietly and calmly, to each get back to sleep and I was very aware that this is my life.  Sometimes I am amazed at my ability to be calm and address his needs, even when that little face is wailing in my face.  Although, of course, there are times when I let him grumble to get just a few more minutes of half-sleep.

On Monday, we had a very large outing to the zoo.  Pete was working behind the scenes for the day (his Christmas gift from me).  I spent the day circling the animal enclosures trying to keep Charlie calm and happy.  No viewing of animal antics for me.  No viewing of my husband enjoying his gift.  I was barely able to find time to eat.  However, I did manage to flash a minor celebrity while breastfeeding near the meerkats.  So that's something.

I've always known I am a little selfish.  Maybe it's the only child thing.  Maybe I have just been spoiled and come to expect things my way.

That isn't happening much these days.  Without thinking I put Pruin first.  Every minute is a minute I am fully engaged.  There is not much thought for what will come later in the day.  I am constantly working through the list; feed, burp, change, cuddle.

There is nothing else.
Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.

There is no reward but silence.
Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.


I don't know if I do it, calmly, out of love or duty.
What I do know is it is like nothing I have felt before.


Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.

In the park.
In the cafe.
In IKEA showroom.
At the zoo.
On the couch.
In the night.
In the day.

Feed. Burp. Change. Cuddle.

There is nothing else.  For now.

The Arrival

On May 12th Pruin came into the world.
The arrival did not go to plan.

Such is life and so it goes.

What happens next is anyone's guess.