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).