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.