Written May 22, 2014
Since I was fourteen years old the dream was to be an early childhood teacher. Everything I did in school was a calculated decision to move me toward that goal; to get in to university or gain some experience, and to be the best teacher I could be. There was no back up career, no plan B, teaching was my only option. They say a person is lucky to be paid to do something they love so I know I am truly blessed. This being the case, I never thought returning to a job that I love, a career I’ve dedicated my life to, would be this hard.
I thought the first six weeks of Alice’s life were hard. I feel like I’m back in that space now, trying to adjust to a situation I’m not quite ready for. I am frantically trying to keep my head above water, only just struggling through. I am emotional, anxious, and overwhelmed.
The preparation for leaving Alice is harder for the main event. The day before I have a sleepless night, if I’m not going over everything I need to get organised I am trying to work through guilt and inexplicable feelings of being a ‘less than’ mum. And when my working day is over, I am so excited to get to Alice I am often overcome with emotion.
Incidentally, Alice stays with Nana or Oma when I’m at work, she loves it and doesn’t even really know I’m gone.
And here’s the kicker, I still love teaching. I am still energized by forty four year olds, I still getting a kick out of being a part of their education. The minute I walk out the door I am excited to get to work and engage. I am still working toward being the best teacher I can be – there is still no back up plan, this is my passion.
Right now, my biggest struggle is trying to feel like I am in control. It was so much easier when Alice and I were in our love bubble, the days ticking over gently, the passing of time measured by hours between feeds. Now I am depending on other people to provide that environment for Alice and it’s hard to let someone else take charge. Trying to plan for every contingency possible is an awful habit of mine and is one of the main things that keeps me up at night. And I have discovered an emotion I didn’t realise existed; a mixture of guilt, tension and helplessness, tinged with anger at myself for overreacting so much.
I must remind myself that this will pass with no ill-effect on Alice. Those first six weeks when I was just as overwhelmed, just as anxious, that passed and we are fine. Time to adjust to this change and new phase of our relationship is what I need. I need to remind myself why I’m going back to work in the first place, how wonderful it is that Alice has quality time with Nana or Oma, and I need to give it time.
Sunday, 19 April 2015
Alice Hacks! 5 tricks that keps me going
Written May 4, 2013
Looking at the big picture, nothing could have prepared me for the overall experience of having Alice. On a smaller scale, I planned and prepared as best I could to make Alice’s early months as smooth and as stress free as possible, just like every parent does in their own way. Along the way I picked up a few “baby hacks” that I wish I had known from the beginning.
These worked for Alice and for me, and my lifestyle and my budget, and… well, I could go on and on. I’m not at all saying that I think this is the be all and end all of child-raising, I’m saying this is what I did that worked for me and thank goodness it did! These little tricks made my transition to parenthood manageable. My main reason for writing them here is so I can look back in the future, and remind myself of these little tricks for baby number two, especially in those first six, gruelling weeks when everything is cry-worthy and I remember nothing of what I’ve learnt.
This is also a public ‘thank you very much’ to those people who steered me in the right direction; family, midwife, Plunket, friends; the helpful hints from these people is what I’m celebrating - and journaling - with this blog.
The baby wrap
Babies are born with too many survival reflexes to count. Reflexes that help them get fed and cleaned and kept safe. One of these reflexes, the Moro or startle reflex, is a baby’s innate defense mechanism against danger.
And it’s a pain in the backside when babies are sleeping.
My reason for wrapping was to stop Alice’s startle reflex waking her up when there was a loud noise (or, indeed, if Alice was holding on to wind and decided to let it go during a nap…).
I was shown this wrapping technique when Alice was a week old and I still use it now, nearly seven months on. I use a long piece of fabric (about 1.5 metres long, 90cm wide), I found cotton fabric with a little elastane works best. I fold the top down about ten centre metres, about the length of Alice’s forearm. I lie her a third of the way along, tuck her arm up to the elbow under the fold on the shorter side and wrap the fabric around her. I repeat for the other, longer side, wrapping so her hands are below her chin. The tighter the better! She can suck her hands, sleep with her arms up (which means she’s not fighting to get out of the wrap), and she won’t wake herself up with her wriggling. Better still, her legs are fairly free, which is great for hip health.
I think, if it weren’t for this wrap, I’d be a cot case.
Satin hair savers
I asked my mum to make some satin runners with cotton backing to go in to the cot; it meant Alice rubbed hardly any hair off the back of her head and, although this wasn’t the plan, I now have a familiar piece of bedding that I can take with me when she sleeps in different beds. Satin pillowcases work well, too.
A freezer full of goodies
having cooked meals in the freezer has been an absolute godsend. I found that I didn’t use them in the first few weeks because our routine was as messy as Alice’s; both my partner and I just ate what we could, when we could. But now it’s great having a back up. I find they get used not so much on days that are busy – when I’m so worked up about going out with a baby that I’ve planned for everything three times over. The frozen dinners are eaten on days when Alice and I spend all day playing in our jammies and time gets away on us… oh well!
The 45 minute miracle
Once we had all settled in to some sort of normalcy, I could set a clock by Alice. Up until Alice was about five months old everything ran on a forty-five minute cycle. She would wake, play, feed, and forty-five minutes later, give or take no more than a few minutes, someone flicked a switch and Alice was ready for bed. Heaven help me if her routine took longer than three quarters of an hour.
The cycle went on; she would be asleep for 45 minutes and wake (the crucial transition between REM and deep sleep) but so long as no one was in the room she would go back to sleep, waking after another forty-five minutes or an hour and a half. I’ve heard of other babies that need resettling after forty-five minutes, I’ve heard of babies that only sleep forty-five minutes at a time full stop. And of course, I’ve heard of babies where this rule doesn’t apply at all.
As time went on, the forty-five minutes doubled. Her wake time became 1 ½ hours, down to the minute. Now, at nearly seven months, her wake time is two hours and fifteen minutes; forty-five minutes times three.
The coincidences continue – since eleven weeks old Alice has slept for nine hours every night unless something was wrong. This is forty-five minutes twelve times over, with never more than a few minutes difference.
The forty-five minute cycle is backed up by study and research and cognitive theory, and by experiences in our own lives. We get up and have breakfast. Three hours later we need a stretch, or some morning tea. Then lunch about an hour and a half later. Maybe it takes forty-five minutes to get over that early afternoon slump? I’ve studied my day, and I too run on a multiple of the forty-five minute cycle.
When the Karatane nurse told me about the forty-five minute miracle, I felt like she had imparted The Divine Truth – sacred knowledge that answered all the world’s problems. Suddenly I had science to explain why it seemed like I had a grizzly baby all the time. I didn’t, she was just tired. I am just blessed I’ve got a great sleeper.
A moment in time
The last thing I want to remember is this statement; “this is just a moment in time”. I can be tired now because it won’t be forever. I’ve had sleepless nights before, I can sleep tomorrow night. Alice is grumpy now but she’ll burp soon and we’ll all be fine. ‘This is just a moment in time’ has got me through some tough days, and there are many more tough days to come. I know we’ll be ok, though, because it’s just a moment in time.
And it goes both ways. Alice won’t always smile like that when I walk in to the room. I won’t always be able to park her in the washing basket to hang the towels on the line, watching the expression of interest and joy as she and the Labrador touch noses. I won’t always be able to pretend to eat her toes or blow raspberries in her armpits. ‘This is just a moment in time’ reminds me to watch her. Be present. To not apologise for having a party every time Alice does something new or different. This is just a moment in time.
Looking at the big picture, nothing could have prepared me for the overall experience of having Alice. On a smaller scale, I planned and prepared as best I could to make Alice’s early months as smooth and as stress free as possible, just like every parent does in their own way. Along the way I picked up a few “baby hacks” that I wish I had known from the beginning.
These worked for Alice and for me, and my lifestyle and my budget, and… well, I could go on and on. I’m not at all saying that I think this is the be all and end all of child-raising, I’m saying this is what I did that worked for me and thank goodness it did! These little tricks made my transition to parenthood manageable. My main reason for writing them here is so I can look back in the future, and remind myself of these little tricks for baby number two, especially in those first six, gruelling weeks when everything is cry-worthy and I remember nothing of what I’ve learnt.
This is also a public ‘thank you very much’ to those people who steered me in the right direction; family, midwife, Plunket, friends; the helpful hints from these people is what I’m celebrating - and journaling - with this blog.
The baby wrap
Babies are born with too many survival reflexes to count. Reflexes that help them get fed and cleaned and kept safe. One of these reflexes, the Moro or startle reflex, is a baby’s innate defense mechanism against danger.
And it’s a pain in the backside when babies are sleeping.
My reason for wrapping was to stop Alice’s startle reflex waking her up when there was a loud noise (or, indeed, if Alice was holding on to wind and decided to let it go during a nap…).
I was shown this wrapping technique when Alice was a week old and I still use it now, nearly seven months on. I use a long piece of fabric (about 1.5 metres long, 90cm wide), I found cotton fabric with a little elastane works best. I fold the top down about ten centre metres, about the length of Alice’s forearm. I lie her a third of the way along, tuck her arm up to the elbow under the fold on the shorter side and wrap the fabric around her. I repeat for the other, longer side, wrapping so her hands are below her chin. The tighter the better! She can suck her hands, sleep with her arms up (which means she’s not fighting to get out of the wrap), and she won’t wake herself up with her wriggling. Better still, her legs are fairly free, which is great for hip health.
I think, if it weren’t for this wrap, I’d be a cot case.
I asked my mum to make some satin runners with cotton backing to go in to the cot; it meant Alice rubbed hardly any hair off the back of her head and, although this wasn’t the plan, I now have a familiar piece of bedding that I can take with me when she sleeps in different beds. Satin pillowcases work well, too.
A freezer full of goodies
having cooked meals in the freezer has been an absolute godsend. I found that I didn’t use them in the first few weeks because our routine was as messy as Alice’s; both my partner and I just ate what we could, when we could. But now it’s great having a back up. I find they get used not so much on days that are busy – when I’m so worked up about going out with a baby that I’ve planned for everything three times over. The frozen dinners are eaten on days when Alice and I spend all day playing in our jammies and time gets away on us… oh well!
The 45 minute miracle
Once we had all settled in to some sort of normalcy, I could set a clock by Alice. Up until Alice was about five months old everything ran on a forty-five minute cycle. She would wake, play, feed, and forty-five minutes later, give or take no more than a few minutes, someone flicked a switch and Alice was ready for bed. Heaven help me if her routine took longer than three quarters of an hour.
The cycle went on; she would be asleep for 45 minutes and wake (the crucial transition between REM and deep sleep) but so long as no one was in the room she would go back to sleep, waking after another forty-five minutes or an hour and a half. I’ve heard of other babies that need resettling after forty-five minutes, I’ve heard of babies that only sleep forty-five minutes at a time full stop. And of course, I’ve heard of babies where this rule doesn’t apply at all.
As time went on, the forty-five minutes doubled. Her wake time became 1 ½ hours, down to the minute. Now, at nearly seven months, her wake time is two hours and fifteen minutes; forty-five minutes times three.
The coincidences continue – since eleven weeks old Alice has slept for nine hours every night unless something was wrong. This is forty-five minutes twelve times over, with never more than a few minutes difference.
The forty-five minute cycle is backed up by study and research and cognitive theory, and by experiences in our own lives. We get up and have breakfast. Three hours later we need a stretch, or some morning tea. Then lunch about an hour and a half later. Maybe it takes forty-five minutes to get over that early afternoon slump? I’ve studied my day, and I too run on a multiple of the forty-five minute cycle.
When the Karatane nurse told me about the forty-five minute miracle, I felt like she had imparted The Divine Truth – sacred knowledge that answered all the world’s problems. Suddenly I had science to explain why it seemed like I had a grizzly baby all the time. I didn’t, she was just tired. I am just blessed I’ve got a great sleeper.
A moment in time
The last thing I want to remember is this statement; “this is just a moment in time”. I can be tired now because it won’t be forever. I’ve had sleepless nights before, I can sleep tomorrow night. Alice is grumpy now but she’ll burp soon and we’ll all be fine. ‘This is just a moment in time’ has got me through some tough days, and there are many more tough days to come. I know we’ll be ok, though, because it’s just a moment in time.
And it goes both ways. Alice won’t always smile like that when I walk in to the room. I won’t always be able to park her in the washing basket to hang the towels on the line, watching the expression of interest and joy as she and the Labrador touch noses. I won’t always be able to pretend to eat her toes or blow raspberries in her armpits. ‘This is just a moment in time’ reminds me to watch her. Be present. To not apologise for having a party every time Alice does something new or different. This is just a moment in time.
The Perfect Parent! It does exsist!
Written 16 April, 2014
There are a few common themes in blogs that record the messy, marvellous journey that is raising small humans. Birth stories, breastfeeding journeys and the struggles of working parents are rife and I’ve added a record of my own experiences to the mix. Sleep deprivation, public parenting faux pas and baby food recipes are surely in the top ten topics. But an overarching paradigm that seems to be able to worm its way in to any blog about raising little people is that there is no such thing as a perfect parent. We are all just struggling through, doing the best we can on the day, hoping like hell that we don’t screw up our small people too badly through our own inadequacies. We are reassured that small people are resilient creatures and so long as you try your best, no doubt they’ll be fine.
I want to argue with this a little bit. I agree, parenting can be a struggle. I agree, learning to live from day to day (sometimes from hour to hour) has been essential. I agree, if adults were as adaptable and forgiving as babies and young children the world would be a much happier place, full of intrapersonal understanding and celebrating simpler joys. What I don’t fully agree with is saying there is no such thing as a perfect parent.
I know with every cell in my being that there is not another person on this planet that can mother Alice like I can. I am her perfect parent, and I’m not going to apologise for saying it. And there is not a man in the universe that could possibly replace her father. People care for her and take care of her, which is wonderful, but no one can replace us.
No one can replace you, either.
Some perfect parents use disposable nappies. Some buy three tanks of water a year to wash cloth ones, and smile at their full washing line every once in a while.
Some perfect parents sit their small person in a baby bouncer while they puree a kilo of pumpkin, others stand for twenty-five minutes in the supermarket isle deciding on prepared food flavours. And weighing up best value for money. And thinking of craft ideas for the jars. And maybe even kicking themselves for leaving the coupons at home.
Perfect parents breastfeed until their small person is four years old. Or three days old. Maybe somewhere in between or not at all? Hmm, okay. Perfect parents make decisions and sacrifices and at the end of the day, feed their children one way or another.
Perfect parents work. Sometimes it’s even paid.
Perfect parents leave their exhausted small people to cry sometimes, and perfect parents sometimes cry themselves. It’s not hormones, it’s not a sign of weakness. It’s emotion that is intensified by having your heart live outside your body.
Perfect parents make mistakes, but I believe this is a redundant statement. You made mistakes before you were a parent, didn’t you? People make mistakes whether they are parents or not. Stuffing up is not a new concept to perfect parents, they just have their heart and soul invested in the small person who is potentially effected by it. People make mistakes, perfect parents take those mistakes seriously.
Parent on, perfect mums and dads. No one comes close to taking your place in raising your small person. You are an inspiration for the decisions you make every day, for the sacrifices you make every day, for making choices that make this incredible job a little easier and more enjoyable for you and your children. Parent on, and celebrate your perfectness.
A Mighty Meeting of Mothers!
Written March 19, 2014
A group of feminists, some with life partners, some with not… who gather to discuss mother’s rights and other issues important to us.
- Alice Paul.
I like this quote for two reasons. The first reason is the speaker shares her name with my two most favourite people in this universe. The second reason is it describes my mother’s group pretty much perfectly.
It would have been very easy for me to become an isolated mother, feeling as though I was the only person in the world to have experienced this joyous, confusing, soul-destroying, scary, messy, blissful adventure that is motherhood. But I have found myself to be a part of a wonderful group of women who, in their own ways, are having similar adventures of their own. Knowing them is one of the many positive spin-offs from having Alice. My antenatal class was adequate – the people I met as a result of attending that class have been extraordinary.
It took about six weeks to come out of the new born fog, for me at least, and I think our first mother’s group meeting had something to do with it. I was almost overcome with nervousness – I had been supplementing with formula for nearly a month but it still felt like an awful sin I had to hide from the world. I needn’t have worried, and I wasn’t the only one.
We met at a mother’s friend’s house who had an older baby and loved that her living room was filled with the sound of new born noise. We all had a birth story, an opinion of our post-natal care, an adventure tale of a sleepless night. Our babies all slept, cried, and fed (almost at the same time, if I recall). From where I sat, for all our differences, we had all struggled and triumphed and embraced motherhood, and we were prepared to offer and receive support from people that understood.
Mother’s group has evolved somewhat, now. Some of us have gone back to work or study and we are figuring out the infamous life juggle. Some of us are picking up commitments and hobbies that were dropped in order to bring a baby in to the world. Some of us are testing sleep patterns and daily routines by having family stay, or by going on a holiday. In our own ways we are re-engaging with the concept of “real life”. Meeting in a large group hasn’t happened in a while because we can’t get schedules to correspond. But there might be a couple of mums ready to go for a walk, or to a baby music group, or for a coffee. And the internet has been a great way to keep connected, to still be able to share our unique but similar story of being mums and seek advice from women we trust.
Being part of a mother’s group has been invaluable. If a mother’s group hadn’t evolved from anti-natal class I probably would have joined a group through Plunket – in the town that I live near they have lots of opportunities for mothers to get together with their babies and develop a network for support and friendship. I assume these initiatives are a nationwide effort; being connected to people that understand and care is vital for mother’s emotional wellbeing, and Plunket have embraced this.
But I am so grateful to know the women I do now, and their beautiful first babies. We support, we encourage, we reassure, we praise. And some of us bake. This is what I think a good mother’s group is all about.
Seeds of Doubt
Written March 11, 2014
I feel like I have been a pretty informed parent. I’m lucky that I have a job that lends itself to have an insight into child development, and I was determined from the beginning to be as in control of pregnancy and parenting as I possibly could be. Knowledge is power, and I was going to be powerful.
Through my work and my research, I know that even textbook babies are like finger prints – at first glance they all look pretty similar but in reality, each one is fundamentally different.
Before I was a parent, I would often remind the mums and dads I was working with of this, that children develop at such different rates all within the range of “normal”. I might say that baby could be focusing of physical skills over language or vice-versa, or that development of certain skills can be influenced by older or younger siblings (which is wonderful, your baby is doing a great job of interacting with her environment!). I would say that so long as they were happy and healthy, the baby was fine and the parents were doing a great job. I know this, I’ve preached this, and it is proven in countless case studies and endless research.
Now I know something else, too. I know that no matter what anyone says – mother or teacher or doctor or stranger – a seed of doubt is easily planted in a mother’s consciousness and all the “knowledge” in the world won’t stop it growing.
The first seed of doubt I remember was planted around 16 weeks of pregnancy with this question; “felt any movements yet?” I hadn’t. I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew it was silly to worry, but I kept getting asked by lovely people who cared and, even though they often followed up with “that’s ok, you probably won’t feel anything for a while”, the seed of doubt is still planted. I kept trying to weed out the doubt by reminding myself of what I “knew”, but I didn’t realise how tense it had made me until nearly 20 weeks, when I felt that delectable swish deep in my belly.
Here are some other seeds of doubt that weren’t weeded out until Alice (Squidget when I was pregnant) showed me that she was happy, healthy, and doing exactly what she should be;
Is that her head or her bottom? (Bottom!)
Will I have a labour experience that I visualised? (Yes!)
Is that conjunctivitis? (Blocked tear duct! Nothing will fix it, no matter what you suggest!)
She will smile at six weeks (No she won’t, she’ll smile at seven weeks then she won’t stop!)
Watch out for her 3 month immunisations, they’re the worst (She was a champ!)
For all of these comments, ideas, and concerns I had, I had knowledge that should have calmed my worries but it didn’t. Thankfully, I have a super awesome baby that weeded out the doubt when the time was right, and every parent I’ve met has had their own super awesome baby that has done the same for them. Who can blame us for wanting perfectly healthy babies that meet their textbook milestones? I think it’s sweet providence that, in the end, it’s our babies that put our minds at ease.
My current little doubt seed is about Alice not rolling. She’s not even trying, she just lies there, playing with her perfect little toes and talking to anyone who will listen. I must admit, this is a very scrawny little seedling; I’m happy knowing that Alice is safe in her cot and she will stay where I put her on the floor. But I have created this seedling for myself, going against everything I believe in professionally and comparing my happy, thriving baby girl against the equally happy and thriving babies of friends. Silly me.
Soon, Alice will roll, and I will have a blissful few days enjoying my ever-growing daughter before there will be something else to be a little concerned about.
A mothers’ burden to worry? I think so. A mother’s privilege to care? Definitely.
I feel like I have been a pretty informed parent. I’m lucky that I have a job that lends itself to have an insight into child development, and I was determined from the beginning to be as in control of pregnancy and parenting as I possibly could be. Knowledge is power, and I was going to be powerful.
Through my work and my research, I know that even textbook babies are like finger prints – at first glance they all look pretty similar but in reality, each one is fundamentally different.
Before I was a parent, I would often remind the mums and dads I was working with of this, that children develop at such different rates all within the range of “normal”. I might say that baby could be focusing of physical skills over language or vice-versa, or that development of certain skills can be influenced by older or younger siblings (which is wonderful, your baby is doing a great job of interacting with her environment!). I would say that so long as they were happy and healthy, the baby was fine and the parents were doing a great job. I know this, I’ve preached this, and it is proven in countless case studies and endless research.
Now I know something else, too. I know that no matter what anyone says – mother or teacher or doctor or stranger – a seed of doubt is easily planted in a mother’s consciousness and all the “knowledge” in the world won’t stop it growing.
The first seed of doubt I remember was planted around 16 weeks of pregnancy with this question; “felt any movements yet?” I hadn’t. I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew it was silly to worry, but I kept getting asked by lovely people who cared and, even though they often followed up with “that’s ok, you probably won’t feel anything for a while”, the seed of doubt is still planted. I kept trying to weed out the doubt by reminding myself of what I “knew”, but I didn’t realise how tense it had made me until nearly 20 weeks, when I felt that delectable swish deep in my belly.
Here are some other seeds of doubt that weren’t weeded out until Alice (Squidget when I was pregnant) showed me that she was happy, healthy, and doing exactly what she should be;
Is that her head or her bottom? (Bottom!)
Will I have a labour experience that I visualised? (Yes!)
Is that conjunctivitis? (Blocked tear duct! Nothing will fix it, no matter what you suggest!)
She will smile at six weeks (No she won’t, she’ll smile at seven weeks then she won’t stop!)
Watch out for her 3 month immunisations, they’re the worst (She was a champ!)
For all of these comments, ideas, and concerns I had, I had knowledge that should have calmed my worries but it didn’t. Thankfully, I have a super awesome baby that weeded out the doubt when the time was right, and every parent I’ve met has had their own super awesome baby that has done the same for them. Who can blame us for wanting perfectly healthy babies that meet their textbook milestones? I think it’s sweet providence that, in the end, it’s our babies that put our minds at ease.
My current little doubt seed is about Alice not rolling. She’s not even trying, she just lies there, playing with her perfect little toes and talking to anyone who will listen. I must admit, this is a very scrawny little seedling; I’m happy knowing that Alice is safe in her cot and she will stay where I put her on the floor. But I have created this seedling for myself, going against everything I believe in professionally and comparing my happy, thriving baby girl against the equally happy and thriving babies of friends. Silly me.
Soon, Alice will roll, and I will have a blissful few days enjoying my ever-growing daughter before there will be something else to be a little concerned about.
A mothers’ burden to worry? I think so. A mother’s privilege to care? Definitely.
Saturday, 18 April 2015
The Last Chapter - Final thoughts on my breastfeeding journey
Written February 21, 2014
Breastfeeding has never been a full source of nourishment for Alice, but I mix-fed for three and a half months because it was a comfort. I was comforted knowing Alice was getting antibodies and nutrients, Alice was comforted with a little snack when we were out and she was tired, and we were both comforted by the closeness that breastfeeding brings.
Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but about a week ago was the last time I breastfed Alice. Breastfeeding had dwindled to the early morning feed anyway, but one morning she slept in, waking up so hungry she couldn’t latch properly and needed the bottle straight away. Alice sleeps for 10 hours or more every night, so who could blame her? It wasn’t until the next morning, when I went to make her bottle that I realised it had been 48 hours since I’d breastfed and I had nothing more to give her.
If I had known that time was going to be our last time, I would have stroked her hair, looked lovingly at her sweet face, and not hurried in my eagerness to get back to bed. This went straight into my little bag of guilt that I carry labelled “not being able to breastfeed my daughter”. (I dip in to it less than I used to these days. Some days it feels like someone dropped a brick in there, but most days I can screw it up and shove it in my back pocket.)
My breastfeeding journey has been an emotional merry-go-round. It started wonderfully, breastfeeding my baby when she was minutes old after she had wriggled her way down from my upper chest on her own. Then I felt shock, and guilt, and overwhelming sadness. I felt relief a few days after I started bottle-feeding, when I readjusted my perception of what breastfeeding was going to mean for us; I started thinking of it as a health boost for Alice and a special bonding time for the both of us.
And now that I’m not feeding Alice at all, anger with my body is another emotion I can add to this list. When I realised I had fed her for the last time, I felt a tiny, bitter seed take root in my brain when I thought “My body is useless. Of course I can’t breastfeed, my body has never done what I’ve wanted it to do before, why would it start now?”
Good old hypnobirthing techniques. A year or so ago I would have accepted this little thought as truth, as I have my whole life. I would have cultivated that bitter little seed to grow a garden of noxious thoughts about myself. But using the same guided meditation techniques I used in pregnancy, I quickly recognised this as a thought that is hurtful and unhelpful. I reminded myself of some actual truths and suffocated that poisonous little seedling.
My body grew a person. A healthy, beautiful person that came in to the world because my body birthed her. Not only that, my body birthed her like a pro, as if it had been built for that very purpose and had been birthing babies forever.
Anger at my body lasted for a very, very short time. I still feel a little sadness that I am no longer breastfeeding, but that’s more because I feel I am going to miss out on experiences rather than feeling like a failure. My body allows me to cuddle and carry and kiss Alice, and it holds the mind and soul of a mother. I wouldn't say I love my body but I am grateful, and I see that now.
Finishing thought: if our friends spoke to us how we speak to ourselves, would we still be friends with them? Be extra kind to yourself.
Breastfeeding has never been a full source of nourishment for Alice, but I mix-fed for three and a half months because it was a comfort. I was comforted knowing Alice was getting antibodies and nutrients, Alice was comforted with a little snack when we were out and she was tired, and we were both comforted by the closeness that breastfeeding brings.
Well, I didn’t know it at the time, but about a week ago was the last time I breastfed Alice. Breastfeeding had dwindled to the early morning feed anyway, but one morning she slept in, waking up so hungry she couldn’t latch properly and needed the bottle straight away. Alice sleeps for 10 hours or more every night, so who could blame her? It wasn’t until the next morning, when I went to make her bottle that I realised it had been 48 hours since I’d breastfed and I had nothing more to give her.
If I had known that time was going to be our last time, I would have stroked her hair, looked lovingly at her sweet face, and not hurried in my eagerness to get back to bed. This went straight into my little bag of guilt that I carry labelled “not being able to breastfeed my daughter”. (I dip in to it less than I used to these days. Some days it feels like someone dropped a brick in there, but most days I can screw it up and shove it in my back pocket.)
My breastfeeding journey has been an emotional merry-go-round. It started wonderfully, breastfeeding my baby when she was minutes old after she had wriggled her way down from my upper chest on her own. Then I felt shock, and guilt, and overwhelming sadness. I felt relief a few days after I started bottle-feeding, when I readjusted my perception of what breastfeeding was going to mean for us; I started thinking of it as a health boost for Alice and a special bonding time for the both of us.
And now that I’m not feeding Alice at all, anger with my body is another emotion I can add to this list. When I realised I had fed her for the last time, I felt a tiny, bitter seed take root in my brain when I thought “My body is useless. Of course I can’t breastfeed, my body has never done what I’ve wanted it to do before, why would it start now?”
Good old hypnobirthing techniques. A year or so ago I would have accepted this little thought as truth, as I have my whole life. I would have cultivated that bitter little seed to grow a garden of noxious thoughts about myself. But using the same guided meditation techniques I used in pregnancy, I quickly recognised this as a thought that is hurtful and unhelpful. I reminded myself of some actual truths and suffocated that poisonous little seedling.
My body grew a person. A healthy, beautiful person that came in to the world because my body birthed her. Not only that, my body birthed her like a pro, as if it had been built for that very purpose and had been birthing babies forever.
Anger at my body lasted for a very, very short time. I still feel a little sadness that I am no longer breastfeeding, but that’s more because I feel I am going to miss out on experiences rather than feeling like a failure. My body allows me to cuddle and carry and kiss Alice, and it holds the mind and soul of a mother. I wouldn't say I love my body but I am grateful, and I see that now.
Finishing thought: if our friends spoke to us how we speak to ourselves, would we still be friends with them? Be extra kind to yourself.
The Emoti Con
Written 14 February, 2014
When I was pregnant there was a lot that I was prepared to be overwhelmed by. I expected to be ridiculously tired, to a point that is comparable to torture tactics. I was prepared to find leaving the house impossible due to sheer amount of “stuff”. I was ready to give up my staunch independence and take help whenever I could get it, from whoever offered.
I was even somewhat prepared for the dreaded three day blues. It was a good thing I was, too. By day three the adrenaline had worn off, milk still hadn’t come in, Alice was fighting the billy blanket with all her strength and I was painfully overtired. So I cried. My family and the midwives smiled in that loving, infuriating way, Alice was taken to neonates and I slept for a glorious hour and a half. I woke, feeling like I’d just ridden in on a unicorn, and my silly naïve brain believed that the blues were over.
Wrong.
I have had Alice for four months, one week and three days and the single biggest thing I wasn’t prepared for was the emotions. I’ve not experienced it before and no body talked about it. The three day blues are made to sound like you feel like your world is falling out from under your feet, but by day five everything is back on track and, unless suffering from post natal stress or depression, everything is on the up and you quickly get back to our old self. I call this the emoti con.
I was not prepared to cry so much. Period. Some times there’s a reason, often there’s not, and I can’t blame it on the three days blues four months down the track. With a three day old baby, people understand. But four months later, when you’re crying because you realise that you haven’t washed your favourite babywrap just as the machine has finished, it’s a little harder for others to be sympathetic. I have cried when my partner leaves, I’ve cried when he gets home. I’ve cried because Alice is crying. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried because I’ve burnt dinner. I cry because I’m crying and feel silly about it.
I was not expecting to feel such huge anxiety when I leave Alice with someone for the first time, either. I’ve had to leave her twice for longer that three hours, both times with her grandparents. But the anxiety I felt was so consuming, the sadness of having to leave her so huge, that the day before the event I was a zombie and I got no sleep that night (I cried then, too!). I described this feeling to my partner as handing him over to a terrorist group, blindfolded and handcuffed with a loaded gun, telling them he’s a spy and trusting them not to shoot. Ridiculous, irrational, completely overwhelming.
I guess the emotion that goes along with this is I was so ridiculously excited to get back to Alice that I felt physically ill.
And then there is the guilt. Every mother I’ve ever spoken to has this. It might be about the pregnancy, or birth, or about medical intervention. Mine is breastfeeding. And is rears it’s painful head whenever I’m struggling.
There are often times I think that there is something wrong with me. I apologise often for my emotions, especially to my partner. I often wonder if my anxiety is a window to something more. Surely, if it was normal, people would talk about these intense emotions that hit after the three day blues, at a time when support wanes and other people have moved on with their lives.
When I think that something is amiss, I have to remind myself that these intense emotions go both ways.
I wish I could tell you about the joy Alice brings me from just blinking her eyes, waving her arm, or looking at her toes with Aristotle wisdom. I probably don’t need to tell you, you probably know with your own little people.
And I have never, ever experienced such overwhelming love. Her dad comes close, but I think the love for Alice is intensified with a protective instinct I didn’t know I had.
I think people don’t talk about the irrational crying, anxiety and guilt after the usual blues because it pales in comparison to the joy and love that is incomparable to anything experienced before. Why talk about moments of sadness when the many more moments of unrestrained, overwhelming bliss are all the more powerful?
I’m fully aware that I now reinforce the emoti con when people ask how I am finding motherhood – “I love it, everything is awesome”. I could tell them about the crying, the anxiety, the guilt, but I don’t even give that a second thought. I tell them about the joy, the love, and the protective instinct. In the end I know it doesn’t matter – the emotions of a mother are not something to be prepared for, and not to be learned from someone else. The intense emotion I feel is all part of having my heart live outside of my body, something I couldn’t have even imagined before Alice was born.
When I was pregnant there was a lot that I was prepared to be overwhelmed by. I expected to be ridiculously tired, to a point that is comparable to torture tactics. I was prepared to find leaving the house impossible due to sheer amount of “stuff”. I was ready to give up my staunch independence and take help whenever I could get it, from whoever offered.
I was even somewhat prepared for the dreaded three day blues. It was a good thing I was, too. By day three the adrenaline had worn off, milk still hadn’t come in, Alice was fighting the billy blanket with all her strength and I was painfully overtired. So I cried. My family and the midwives smiled in that loving, infuriating way, Alice was taken to neonates and I slept for a glorious hour and a half. I woke, feeling like I’d just ridden in on a unicorn, and my silly naïve brain believed that the blues were over.
Wrong.
I have had Alice for four months, one week and three days and the single biggest thing I wasn’t prepared for was the emotions. I’ve not experienced it before and no body talked about it. The three day blues are made to sound like you feel like your world is falling out from under your feet, but by day five everything is back on track and, unless suffering from post natal stress or depression, everything is on the up and you quickly get back to our old self. I call this the emoti con.
I was not prepared to cry so much. Period. Some times there’s a reason, often there’s not, and I can’t blame it on the three days blues four months down the track. With a three day old baby, people understand. But four months later, when you’re crying because you realise that you haven’t washed your favourite babywrap just as the machine has finished, it’s a little harder for others to be sympathetic. I have cried when my partner leaves, I’ve cried when he gets home. I’ve cried because Alice is crying. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried because I’ve burnt dinner. I cry because I’m crying and feel silly about it.
I was not expecting to feel such huge anxiety when I leave Alice with someone for the first time, either. I’ve had to leave her twice for longer that three hours, both times with her grandparents. But the anxiety I felt was so consuming, the sadness of having to leave her so huge, that the day before the event I was a zombie and I got no sleep that night (I cried then, too!). I described this feeling to my partner as handing him over to a terrorist group, blindfolded and handcuffed with a loaded gun, telling them he’s a spy and trusting them not to shoot. Ridiculous, irrational, completely overwhelming.
I guess the emotion that goes along with this is I was so ridiculously excited to get back to Alice that I felt physically ill.
And then there is the guilt. Every mother I’ve ever spoken to has this. It might be about the pregnancy, or birth, or about medical intervention. Mine is breastfeeding. And is rears it’s painful head whenever I’m struggling.
There are often times I think that there is something wrong with me. I apologise often for my emotions, especially to my partner. I often wonder if my anxiety is a window to something more. Surely, if it was normal, people would talk about these intense emotions that hit after the three day blues, at a time when support wanes and other people have moved on with their lives.
When I think that something is amiss, I have to remind myself that these intense emotions go both ways.
I wish I could tell you about the joy Alice brings me from just blinking her eyes, waving her arm, or looking at her toes with Aristotle wisdom. I probably don’t need to tell you, you probably know with your own little people.
And I have never, ever experienced such overwhelming love. Her dad comes close, but I think the love for Alice is intensified with a protective instinct I didn’t know I had.
I think people don’t talk about the irrational crying, anxiety and guilt after the usual blues because it pales in comparison to the joy and love that is incomparable to anything experienced before. Why talk about moments of sadness when the many more moments of unrestrained, overwhelming bliss are all the more powerful?
I’m fully aware that I now reinforce the emoti con when people ask how I am finding motherhood – “I love it, everything is awesome”. I could tell them about the crying, the anxiety, the guilt, but I don’t even give that a second thought. I tell them about the joy, the love, and the protective instinct. In the end I know it doesn’t matter – the emotions of a mother are not something to be prepared for, and not to be learned from someone else. The intense emotion I feel is all part of having my heart live outside of my body, something I couldn’t have even imagined before Alice was born.
Waitangi Musings
Written February 6, 2014
Waitaingi Day; a day to celebrate a document that has shaped New Zealand to be what it is today, a day to remember the struggles, successes, and sacrifices of our ancestors, a day to reflect on what partnership means.
I feel so blessed to be living in New Zealand, and I’m reminded of it today. How lucky I am to be raising Alice in this beautiful, safe country that is founded on two cultures.
I hope that I can help Alice learn about her history. Of course, she has English ties, she will grow up surrounded by our English language, all of her ancestors are of European decent. But Alice has an advantage that her great great grandparent didn’t have – her world is heavily accented with the beauty and power of Maori culture, language, and wisdom.
The tiny town where she lives has a Maori name and legend (a wizard chased his wife through these parts!) and Alice will know this story. Though not Maori, this town is all she will know, and she will be able to claim it as her own.
The burial of her placenta on the land where she lives has deeply rooted importance in Maori culture. The word “whenua” means “life giving”. It is the word used for “placenta” as well as “land”, and “hua whenua” or “full earth” refers to food from the ground – life sustaining vegetables. Alice will be spiritually connected to this place where she grew up because her whenua will remain here. Life was given and cultivated in this place. Her place to stand is not in England, it is here, despite her blood ancestry.
As far as language goes, New Zealand is in a prime position to make every single child bilingual, and it sometimes breaks my heart that more people don’t snap up the opportunity to give this gift to children. The list of benefits of a second language is ridiculously long. I am far from fluent, but having Alice has made me even more determined to learn more so she can cultivate her own appreciation of Te Reo Maori. I had minimal education in Te Reo Maori growing up but I can still see its beauty and value so I try and learn as much as I can. My theory is that if I can give Alice more exposure to the language, she will have more understanding than I - and she might even make it a priority to increase understanding with her own children.
As well as language, I’m so happy that Alice’s every day world is punctuated with contemporary and traditional Maori art and music. Kowhaiwhai patterns are every where and taonga puoro are making a comeback. It does a music loving mother good to know that, because of the country where Alice lives, there will be beautiful, organic music to break up the monotony of modern pop and MTV.
Because Alice lives in this amazing country, built on the backs of two cultures, she will have the pleasure of belonging to two separate but significant histories. Her family ancestry will tell her where she has come from. But the history of her country, its people and its legend and its sacredness, will tell her the significance of where she is now. I’m so thankful that Alice will grow up knowing two vibrant cultures and claiming both as her own, mainstream English and powerful, spiritual Te Ao Maori, as only a child born in New Zealand can.
E iti noa ana nā te aroha.
A small thing given with love
Waitaingi Day; a day to celebrate a document that has shaped New Zealand to be what it is today, a day to remember the struggles, successes, and sacrifices of our ancestors, a day to reflect on what partnership means.
I feel so blessed to be living in New Zealand, and I’m reminded of it today. How lucky I am to be raising Alice in this beautiful, safe country that is founded on two cultures.
I hope that I can help Alice learn about her history. Of course, she has English ties, she will grow up surrounded by our English language, all of her ancestors are of European decent. But Alice has an advantage that her great great grandparent didn’t have – her world is heavily accented with the beauty and power of Maori culture, language, and wisdom.
The tiny town where she lives has a Maori name and legend (a wizard chased his wife through these parts!) and Alice will know this story. Though not Maori, this town is all she will know, and she will be able to claim it as her own.
The burial of her placenta on the land where she lives has deeply rooted importance in Maori culture. The word “whenua” means “life giving”. It is the word used for “placenta” as well as “land”, and “hua whenua” or “full earth” refers to food from the ground – life sustaining vegetables. Alice will be spiritually connected to this place where she grew up because her whenua will remain here. Life was given and cultivated in this place. Her place to stand is not in England, it is here, despite her blood ancestry.
As far as language goes, New Zealand is in a prime position to make every single child bilingual, and it sometimes breaks my heart that more people don’t snap up the opportunity to give this gift to children. The list of benefits of a second language is ridiculously long. I am far from fluent, but having Alice has made me even more determined to learn more so she can cultivate her own appreciation of Te Reo Maori. I had minimal education in Te Reo Maori growing up but I can still see its beauty and value so I try and learn as much as I can. My theory is that if I can give Alice more exposure to the language, she will have more understanding than I - and she might even make it a priority to increase understanding with her own children.
As well as language, I’m so happy that Alice’s every day world is punctuated with contemporary and traditional Maori art and music. Kowhaiwhai patterns are every where and taonga puoro are making a comeback. It does a music loving mother good to know that, because of the country where Alice lives, there will be beautiful, organic music to break up the monotony of modern pop and MTV.
Because Alice lives in this amazing country, built on the backs of two cultures, she will have the pleasure of belonging to two separate but significant histories. Her family ancestry will tell her where she has come from. But the history of her country, its people and its legend and its sacredness, will tell her the significance of where she is now. I’m so thankful that Alice will grow up knowing two vibrant cultures and claiming both as her own, mainstream English and powerful, spiritual Te Ao Maori, as only a child born in New Zealand can.
E iti noa ana nā te aroha.
A small thing given with love
Mumma Bear
Written January 25, 2014
So much has happened in the past week or so. I’ve gone back to work, we’ve had earthquakes and storms, I’m planning weddings, Alice has spent more alone time with nana, we’ve done lots of walking, we’ve had our first ‘big girl’ bath. And it seems as if she has grown in to a new phase of herself. Alice has a new repertoire of sounds, smiles, and ways of making the world know she’s here and worth listening to. Growing also brings Alice the ability to make choices, and have dislikes, and understand that there are things that happen outside of her control.
The earthquakes this week have been scary, no doubt about it. When the first big one hit we were at a friend’s house; the dads were outside talking about goodness knows what while my friend and I were inside, chatting about the upcoming arrival of her first baby. Alice was sleeping soundly in my arms, her ear to my heart and her hands clasped on her chest. When the earthquake hit, we were under the door frame within a second or two, and Alice slept. With the second jolt about five seconds later we were outside in a flash, and Alice slept. When it stopped I rushed across the road to check in on my parents. Alice woke slowly with the movement, made eye contact with me, and then, well, slept some more. I was very frightened but not panicking like usual; I had Alice in my arms so everything was fine.
The following day was when I first noticed an aftershock. Just as I was laying Alice in her cot for an afternoon nap, I heard a strange rumble. My heart skipped and I paused, leaning over the cot but holding Alice close to my chest. I didn’t feel a shake so I lay Alice down, tucked her in, stroked her forehead twice and left the room, like usual. I noticed my racing heart just as Alice screamed at me – an ear-piercing ‘don’t you dare leave me’ scream, a noise she’d never made before.
I realised that Alice would have heard my racing heart and known I was surprised or frightened. Her scream, I feel, was not because she was scared of the earthquake, and not because she didn’t want to sleep. She was telling me that if I’m scared there must be something dangerous near by, and the safest place when there is danger is right with Mama. I’d like to think that this was why she didn’t react to my thumping heart the day before, when the big one hit. She was close to me and trusted that I wouldn’t leave her in harm’s way. Hopefully Alice knows that I will protect her, no matter how scared I am.
There are very few things that parents absolutely have to do for their children. We have to feed them. We have to keep them clean and warm. We have to at least try to make sure their environment is a safe one. Everything else is a bonus. Babies have amazing built in alarm systems to make sure people near by don’t forget these ‘must haves’. And for the first few months, it doesn’t particularly matter how a clean bottom and a full tummy is achieved, so long as it gets done.
However, in the past week or so I’ve noticed that Alice has started to develop a list of ‘wants’. She has an understanding that certain people can do things for her, like feed her or cuddle her or make her laugh, and it is such an honour to be one of the few people she prefers to be around. As she grows every day, developing her understanding of people and the world and how she feels about it all, I know I will be close by to assure her. This is the other thing I absolutely have to do for Alice; help her understand that whatever happens, new or different or scary, she will have a constant, loving, safe person to protect her.
The aftershock I felt had finished but Alice certainly hadn’t. I breathed deep to calm my racing heart, picked her up and kissed her face all over, letting her know that if she calls I’m not far away, and the danger is gone. And she slept.
So much has happened in the past week or so. I’ve gone back to work, we’ve had earthquakes and storms, I’m planning weddings, Alice has spent more alone time with nana, we’ve done lots of walking, we’ve had our first ‘big girl’ bath. And it seems as if she has grown in to a new phase of herself. Alice has a new repertoire of sounds, smiles, and ways of making the world know she’s here and worth listening to. Growing also brings Alice the ability to make choices, and have dislikes, and understand that there are things that happen outside of her control.
The earthquakes this week have been scary, no doubt about it. When the first big one hit we were at a friend’s house; the dads were outside talking about goodness knows what while my friend and I were inside, chatting about the upcoming arrival of her first baby. Alice was sleeping soundly in my arms, her ear to my heart and her hands clasped on her chest. When the earthquake hit, we were under the door frame within a second or two, and Alice slept. With the second jolt about five seconds later we were outside in a flash, and Alice slept. When it stopped I rushed across the road to check in on my parents. Alice woke slowly with the movement, made eye contact with me, and then, well, slept some more. I was very frightened but not panicking like usual; I had Alice in my arms so everything was fine.
The following day was when I first noticed an aftershock. Just as I was laying Alice in her cot for an afternoon nap, I heard a strange rumble. My heart skipped and I paused, leaning over the cot but holding Alice close to my chest. I didn’t feel a shake so I lay Alice down, tucked her in, stroked her forehead twice and left the room, like usual. I noticed my racing heart just as Alice screamed at me – an ear-piercing ‘don’t you dare leave me’ scream, a noise she’d never made before.
I realised that Alice would have heard my racing heart and known I was surprised or frightened. Her scream, I feel, was not because she was scared of the earthquake, and not because she didn’t want to sleep. She was telling me that if I’m scared there must be something dangerous near by, and the safest place when there is danger is right with Mama. I’d like to think that this was why she didn’t react to my thumping heart the day before, when the big one hit. She was close to me and trusted that I wouldn’t leave her in harm’s way. Hopefully Alice knows that I will protect her, no matter how scared I am.
There are very few things that parents absolutely have to do for their children. We have to feed them. We have to keep them clean and warm. We have to at least try to make sure their environment is a safe one. Everything else is a bonus. Babies have amazing built in alarm systems to make sure people near by don’t forget these ‘must haves’. And for the first few months, it doesn’t particularly matter how a clean bottom and a full tummy is achieved, so long as it gets done.
However, in the past week or so I’ve noticed that Alice has started to develop a list of ‘wants’. She has an understanding that certain people can do things for her, like feed her or cuddle her or make her laugh, and it is such an honour to be one of the few people she prefers to be around. As she grows every day, developing her understanding of people and the world and how she feels about it all, I know I will be close by to assure her. This is the other thing I absolutely have to do for Alice; help her understand that whatever happens, new or different or scary, she will have a constant, loving, safe person to protect her.
The aftershock I felt had finished but Alice certainly hadn’t. I breathed deep to calm my racing heart, picked her up and kissed her face all over, letting her know that if she calls I’m not far away, and the danger is gone. And she slept.
The Final Countdown
Written January 19, 2014
This week I join the great sisterhood of the working mother. For five months my sole focus has been Alice; bringing her in to the world and then getting to know her. The past three months or so has felt like a dream. Granted, there were some nightmare moments, but on the whole it has been a wonderful, rose-coloured float through life as the weeks drifted by and I was able to fall hopelessly head-over-heels in love with my baby. But now, with parental leave payments finished (thank you, tax payers), and a family to run, it’s time to get back to the real world.
I love every thing about my job; the people are friendly, the paperwork is challenging and stimulating, and above all, the forty or so children I see every day are all sorts of wonderful. And yet, the thought of leaving Alice (with her grandmother, in her own home, for only two hours a day) makes me feel panicky, guilty, and downright sad.
Going back to work for a few hours a week is logically a good thing for me. It will keep my head in the game, giving me more teaching experience and a chance to keep up to date. It will mean I’m not surviving on savings and I may even have enough money to go to the gym – the only thing I feel I’ve really sacrificed since having Alice. It’ll also mean Alice will have a chance to form a bond with another person other than her dad and I, taking the pressure off when she stays with Nana and Grandad for longer than a few hours at a time.
I keep telling myself all these things, as well as reminding myself that Alice is being cared for in her own home, by her own grandmother, for just two hours three days a week. I know in my brain that Alice will be more than fine. I don’t even know why I’m dreading the return to work, I just am. Not even the pull of neat kids and awesome colleagues is enough.
I think part of this emotion is the fact that my returning to work is a choice. I know that if I didn’t go to work the mortgage would still get paid and Alice would still get fed. We could survive on one wage, for a few months at least. But that’s just it, we would just be surviving. There would be no money for petrol for me to get to town with Alice, and we would become very isolated. We may not be able to care properly for our dogs and goats. Our home would remain unfinished and the land un-scaped, not suitable for a growing child. There would be no money for extra clothes, or emergencies, or to print the countless photos I've taken of Alice’s first, well, everything. We don’t have a high maintenance lifestyle by any means, but it’s a lifestyle that still requires one and a half incomes to maintain. I don’t feel guilty for wanting to keep living how we are, but I do feel guilty for sacrificing time with Alice.
However, I know I have it lucky. So many mums have a stress that previous generations of mothers as a whole didn’t really have to deal will - a stress that I will most likely never know. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to be in a position where returning to work is an absolute necessity. I know that right now I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place. I imagine that if I had to leave Alice for a full working week just to keep our home and get food on the table, I’d feel like I was up against a concrete wall with a gun to my head.
I’ve always had a deep respect for working or studying mothers, and I’ve sympathised with their guilt, or worry, or their problem of never having enough hours in the day. But I’ve not truly understood it until now. I guess time will tell how I will go with balancing the mother hat, the teacher hat, the girlfriend hat and the Tiffany hat all at once. For now, I will keep focusing on making Alice smile and unashamedly love every moment of not having to be anywhere in particular, except right here.
This week I join the great sisterhood of the working mother. For five months my sole focus has been Alice; bringing her in to the world and then getting to know her. The past three months or so has felt like a dream. Granted, there were some nightmare moments, but on the whole it has been a wonderful, rose-coloured float through life as the weeks drifted by and I was able to fall hopelessly head-over-heels in love with my baby. But now, with parental leave payments finished (thank you, tax payers), and a family to run, it’s time to get back to the real world.
I love every thing about my job; the people are friendly, the paperwork is challenging and stimulating, and above all, the forty or so children I see every day are all sorts of wonderful. And yet, the thought of leaving Alice (with her grandmother, in her own home, for only two hours a day) makes me feel panicky, guilty, and downright sad.
Going back to work for a few hours a week is logically a good thing for me. It will keep my head in the game, giving me more teaching experience and a chance to keep up to date. It will mean I’m not surviving on savings and I may even have enough money to go to the gym – the only thing I feel I’ve really sacrificed since having Alice. It’ll also mean Alice will have a chance to form a bond with another person other than her dad and I, taking the pressure off when she stays with Nana and Grandad for longer than a few hours at a time.
I keep telling myself all these things, as well as reminding myself that Alice is being cared for in her own home, by her own grandmother, for just two hours three days a week. I know in my brain that Alice will be more than fine. I don’t even know why I’m dreading the return to work, I just am. Not even the pull of neat kids and awesome colleagues is enough.
I think part of this emotion is the fact that my returning to work is a choice. I know that if I didn’t go to work the mortgage would still get paid and Alice would still get fed. We could survive on one wage, for a few months at least. But that’s just it, we would just be surviving. There would be no money for petrol for me to get to town with Alice, and we would become very isolated. We may not be able to care properly for our dogs and goats. Our home would remain unfinished and the land un-scaped, not suitable for a growing child. There would be no money for extra clothes, or emergencies, or to print the countless photos I've taken of Alice’s first, well, everything. We don’t have a high maintenance lifestyle by any means, but it’s a lifestyle that still requires one and a half incomes to maintain. I don’t feel guilty for wanting to keep living how we are, but I do feel guilty for sacrificing time with Alice.
However, I know I have it lucky. So many mums have a stress that previous generations of mothers as a whole didn’t really have to deal will - a stress that I will most likely never know. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to be in a position where returning to work is an absolute necessity. I know that right now I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place. I imagine that if I had to leave Alice for a full working week just to keep our home and get food on the table, I’d feel like I was up against a concrete wall with a gun to my head.
I’ve always had a deep respect for working or studying mothers, and I’ve sympathised with their guilt, or worry, or their problem of never having enough hours in the day. But I’ve not truly understood it until now. I guess time will tell how I will go with balancing the mother hat, the teacher hat, the girlfriend hat and the Tiffany hat all at once. For now, I will keep focusing on making Alice smile and unashamedly love every moment of not having to be anywhere in particular, except right here.
2013 Performance Review
Written December 31, 2013
2012 was ‘the year of the body’, where I lost 20 kilos, so this time last year I felt amazing and had a new found confidence in myself. 2013 was meant to be ‘the year of the career’ for me. I had settled in to an amazing kindergarten job that seemed the perfect fit for me and, having finished teacher registration, I set my sights on further education. I had been accepted into a post-grad certificate course for early childhood education at my old university and I was looking forward to the challenge.
However, the universe had a different plan for me. 2013 was not ‘the year of the career’; it became ‘the year of growth’. And it all began when I conceived Alice, a year ago today. Now I am a different woman.
First and foremost, I grew a person. For most of 2013 I had two hearts, four lungs, and twenty tiny toes – you see, I have little feet, too. My hair and nails grew long and strong. Occasionally my ankles jumped on the growth bandwagon while my stomach led the parade. This was when I grew to like my body. I loved my ever-changing bump and I marvelled at the way my body knew how to make this little person and keep her healthy. My body was doing everything right – I was in awe of what I was physically accomplishing. I grew to accept, trust, and enjoy.
Second, I grew closer to some of the most important people in my life. Babies don’t fix bad relationships, but they sure make good relationships wonderful. It has been the most challenging, trying year for my partner and I; building a house, my partner losing his job, having a baby… and yet I wouldn’t change anything. And we’ve talked. Neither would he.
I also became so much closer to my sister, who also spent a large chunk of the year growing her little person. Sharing this experience with her has been wonderful and she has been a wealth of knowledge and support.
Lastly, I have grown so much closer to my own mother. I rung her whenever something happened (usually to ask if it was ‘normal’), she became my late-pregnancy swimming buddy, and I probably learnt more about her as a person in the past 12 months than I had in the previous 25 years.
I’ve grown my social circle, too, by joining the great sorority of motherhood. Whether it’s having deeper, more meaningful conversations with people I already knew, or forming friendships with the beautiful women I’ve met who are also embarking on this journey for the first time, my world is all the more richer and fuller for knowing them.
I’ve lost friends, too, because priorities changed and we began walking down different paths. But because I was growing Alice, I was never lonely.
Lastly, the way I think, what I know and what I believe in has grown, shifted and changed so much I think my brain might be a different colour. Having Alice has taught me things about the strength and wisdom of a woman’s body and exactly what it is capable of. In fact, having Alice has taught me about my own strength and wisdom and exactly what I am capable of. I have learnt about meditation, yoga, and the power of perception. I have learnt about whanaungatanga (family connection), tangatawhenua (people of the land – Alice’s land where is where her placenta is buried), and above all, aroha (love). I have developed new beliefs and opinions around child-rearing, midwifery, and what ‘pain’ is. The hospital has become a place of spirituality and being pregnant made be feel like I had a kinship with nature, like we had a knowledge about life that no one else knew. My perception of what the world is has changed fundamentally – it is more beautiful and more dangerous at the same time.
While 2013 has been ‘the year of growth’, next year will hopefully be ‘the year of fine-tuning and consolidation’ where mind-spinning changes happen less and I can embrace what joy Alice brings even more. But let’s be realistic; it will probably be the first year in ‘the age of juggling life and motherhood’!
2012 was ‘the year of the body’, where I lost 20 kilos, so this time last year I felt amazing and had a new found confidence in myself. 2013 was meant to be ‘the year of the career’ for me. I had settled in to an amazing kindergarten job that seemed the perfect fit for me and, having finished teacher registration, I set my sights on further education. I had been accepted into a post-grad certificate course for early childhood education at my old university and I was looking forward to the challenge.
However, the universe had a different plan for me. 2013 was not ‘the year of the career’; it became ‘the year of growth’. And it all began when I conceived Alice, a year ago today. Now I am a different woman.
First and foremost, I grew a person. For most of 2013 I had two hearts, four lungs, and twenty tiny toes – you see, I have little feet, too. My hair and nails grew long and strong. Occasionally my ankles jumped on the growth bandwagon while my stomach led the parade. This was when I grew to like my body. I loved my ever-changing bump and I marvelled at the way my body knew how to make this little person and keep her healthy. My body was doing everything right – I was in awe of what I was physically accomplishing. I grew to accept, trust, and enjoy.
Second, I grew closer to some of the most important people in my life. Babies don’t fix bad relationships, but they sure make good relationships wonderful. It has been the most challenging, trying year for my partner and I; building a house, my partner losing his job, having a baby… and yet I wouldn’t change anything. And we’ve talked. Neither would he.
I also became so much closer to my sister, who also spent a large chunk of the year growing her little person. Sharing this experience with her has been wonderful and she has been a wealth of knowledge and support.
Lastly, I have grown so much closer to my own mother. I rung her whenever something happened (usually to ask if it was ‘normal’), she became my late-pregnancy swimming buddy, and I probably learnt more about her as a person in the past 12 months than I had in the previous 25 years.
I’ve grown my social circle, too, by joining the great sorority of motherhood. Whether it’s having deeper, more meaningful conversations with people I already knew, or forming friendships with the beautiful women I’ve met who are also embarking on this journey for the first time, my world is all the more richer and fuller for knowing them.
I’ve lost friends, too, because priorities changed and we began walking down different paths. But because I was growing Alice, I was never lonely.
Lastly, the way I think, what I know and what I believe in has grown, shifted and changed so much I think my brain might be a different colour. Having Alice has taught me things about the strength and wisdom of a woman’s body and exactly what it is capable of. In fact, having Alice has taught me about my own strength and wisdom and exactly what I am capable of. I have learnt about meditation, yoga, and the power of perception. I have learnt about whanaungatanga (family connection), tangatawhenua (people of the land – Alice’s land where is where her placenta is buried), and above all, aroha (love). I have developed new beliefs and opinions around child-rearing, midwifery, and what ‘pain’ is. The hospital has become a place of spirituality and being pregnant made be feel like I had a kinship with nature, like we had a knowledge about life that no one else knew. My perception of what the world is has changed fundamentally – it is more beautiful and more dangerous at the same time.
While 2013 has been ‘the year of growth’, next year will hopefully be ‘the year of fine-tuning and consolidation’ where mind-spinning changes happen less and I can embrace what joy Alice brings even more. But let’s be realistic; it will probably be the first year in ‘the age of juggling life and motherhood’!
Addicted to Love
Written December 27, 2013
Did any of you feel like this?
When I met my partner, Alice’s Dad, I felt something snap inside me, as if I’d not be whole again if I couldn’t be with him.
And when I saw a photo of my gorgeous nephew, tiny and strong, I felt my heart burst open and fill with instant love and adoration.
And whenever I saw babies – human or other wise – my insides would melt in to goo and I felt like my life was infinitely better because I had laid eyes on them.
And when Alice was brought into the world, pulled from a warm bath by her grandmother (by her tiny foot, no less) my first thought when I saw her was something along the lines of ‘Oh, there she is’. There was no snap, no burst of love, not even a drop of goo! I was just cuddling a baby, my baby, in a different way than I had been for nine months already.
During those first six weeks, when we were all exhausted and I felt more like a teary alien than a mother, there were times when I reflected on those first few moments and the fact that there had never been a burst of love. It made me question everything – is she crying because I didn’t feel that soul-destroying love at first sight and she knows it? Am I an awful mother? Could I love her any more and I just don’t – what on earth is wrong with me?!
However now we are twelve weeks in, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and I know a thing or two about my love for Alice.
First of all, her new-born cry physically hurt. I’m an early childhood teacher and I can handle crying, tantrums and tears with the best of them. But when Alice cried my stomach cramped, my head throbbed, and I was overwhelmed with sorrow. It took superhuman strength to not pick her up every time she made a noise and when she cried, there was no strength at all. Alice was nuggled when she was upset because it stopped me hurting.
Next, I find if someone else is holding her there is no point in having a conversation with me. For the first few minutes I am marvelling at the way she moving, looking around, and learning; for the rest of the time I’m anxiously waiting to get her back. I have to tear my eyes away and really concentrate on what’s going on around me, and often I miss the punch line all together!
As well as all this, there are several times a day when I just can’t kiss her or hold her close enough. The expression ‘I could just eat you up!’ has taken on new meaning for me – it’s like I feel that Alice should be a part of my body.
This is why I don’t think I felt that enormous, overwhelming rush of love when Alice was born – I have always loved her and I was just waiting for her to arrive so I could show it. My partner, my nephew, ducklings – they make my life wonderful and happy and my world would be an awfully sad, lonely place without them. I know I would be a husk of a human if they weren’t a major part of my life. But Alice, she is life. She is my life. I feel like she is a part of me, we are forever connected, and I can’t imagine how I could go on existing without her.
The Guilt Trap
Written December 18, 2013
It’s hard to write a blog regarding my feeling guilty about not exclusively breastfeeding that doesn’t sound whiney or like an excuse. My need to write comes after a day out shopping with Alice in the front pack; when she wasn’t smiling at strangers or talking to me she was asleep, her open, relaxed hands spread out on my chest as I walked and shopped. Every shop I went in to I was met by strangers who, with smiles on their faces, asked me three things. First, they checked she was a girl and the second question was age. The third, however, makes me feel defensive and magnifies the guilt I feel. Their question: “Are you feeding well?” I know there are two questions here, but they tend to be asked in the same breath as if they are mutually exclusive. This is not a simple question for me to answer. Do I give them the back story? Do I say she’s “good” because she’s sleeping through the night but is having five full bottles a day? Do I talk about the huge emotional cliff I jumped off and climbed back up again, all because I couldn’t breastfeed? Usually I say something like “she’s such a wonderful baby, I’m loving being a mum”. The last person who asked me was told “she’s brilliant, and she loves brandy Christmas cake.” But the following few paragraphs is what I actually want to say.
The first bottle I gave Alice leaked all over her because I didn’t put the top on properly (you see, I could write a book on what I know about breastfeeding now, however I received no support or information on how to sterilise or prepare a bottle). She was screaming with hunger and tiredness, I was sobbing, overcome with guilt. I held her in my arms while I paced the kitchen, saying ‘I’m so sorry baby’ over and over again, tears streaming down my face and falling on my exhausted baby. I had failed. I was convinced that I had missed the opportunity to form that deep emotional bond with Alice. We won’t even go in to the research about breastfed babies not getting childhood illnesses and SUDI. I wasn’t going to be the parent that I wanted to be and it broke my heart.
There are a lot of factors that may have contributed to my inability to exclusively breastfeed. Perhaps it was due to me only getting 6 house sleep in the first three days. Perhaps it was my chronic anxiety that I couldn’t quite keep in check. Perhaps it was the top ups she was getting during her two day stay in the neo-natal unit. Or, perhaps, I am part of the 2% of women in the world who just can’t make milk.
Following an easy pregnancy and a brilliant birth, Alice had a great latch and I could breastfeed without pain, in fact, it felt wonderful. It just wasn’t happening. Alice was hungry, lost too much weight, and at two weeks she was having ‘top ups’. By six weeks these had grown to full bottles, even though she was (and still is) having breast before every meal. I didn’t just accept this low supply either – I pretty much lived on lactation cookies for three weeks, added flaxmeal to everything I ate, tried to rest and express between feeds and cook protein-rich meals like every other super mum. In the end, this regime seemed to take over my life and exhaust me at the same time- and it did nothing. I could see my dream of attachment parenting stroll leisurely out the door, waving as it went.
With every bottle I give Alice now, I still feel a pang of guilt. For a long time I hated giving her to anyone else to feed – I should be the one that is able to feed her and I can’t.
Even though I feel this in my heart, in my head I know I’m doing the right thing. First and foremost, Alice would have starved to death by now if it weren’t for formula, plain and simple. Second, Alice is putting on weight, meeting all her milestones, loves having nuggles, and smiles at me constantly. I have a wonderfully happy, healthy baby. Third, because I still offer breast first, she’s getting antibodies and nutrients as well as a full tummy at the end – all good stuff. I’m hoping this feeling of loss will pass as Alice continues to thrive as she is now. I know lots of great mothers who bottle feed their babies, whether by choice or out of necessity. Even though I feel sadness, I know that Alice is no less loved or taken care of.
And now that I am more confident in my parenting ability I can see a few things more clearly in regards to strangers asking if I’m feeding Alice. I find myself asking why it’s so important to complete strangers how I am feeding this baby. I already feel like I’m smuggling drugs when I pick up a can of formula at the supermarket, I don’t want to explain myself to someone I’m never going to see again. I am aware that this is my own emotional issue, but have we really ever asked ourselves – what on earth gives these strangers the right to know what we do with our breasts?
It’s hard to write a blog regarding my feeling guilty about not exclusively breastfeeding that doesn’t sound whiney or like an excuse. My need to write comes after a day out shopping with Alice in the front pack; when she wasn’t smiling at strangers or talking to me she was asleep, her open, relaxed hands spread out on my chest as I walked and shopped. Every shop I went in to I was met by strangers who, with smiles on their faces, asked me three things. First, they checked she was a girl and the second question was age. The third, however, makes me feel defensive and magnifies the guilt I feel. Their question: “Are you feeding well?” I know there are two questions here, but they tend to be asked in the same breath as if they are mutually exclusive. This is not a simple question for me to answer. Do I give them the back story? Do I say she’s “good” because she’s sleeping through the night but is having five full bottles a day? Do I talk about the huge emotional cliff I jumped off and climbed back up again, all because I couldn’t breastfeed? Usually I say something like “she’s such a wonderful baby, I’m loving being a mum”. The last person who asked me was told “she’s brilliant, and she loves brandy Christmas cake.” But the following few paragraphs is what I actually want to say.
The first bottle I gave Alice leaked all over her because I didn’t put the top on properly (you see, I could write a book on what I know about breastfeeding now, however I received no support or information on how to sterilise or prepare a bottle). She was screaming with hunger and tiredness, I was sobbing, overcome with guilt. I held her in my arms while I paced the kitchen, saying ‘I’m so sorry baby’ over and over again, tears streaming down my face and falling on my exhausted baby. I had failed. I was convinced that I had missed the opportunity to form that deep emotional bond with Alice. We won’t even go in to the research about breastfed babies not getting childhood illnesses and SUDI. I wasn’t going to be the parent that I wanted to be and it broke my heart.
There are a lot of factors that may have contributed to my inability to exclusively breastfeed. Perhaps it was due to me only getting 6 house sleep in the first three days. Perhaps it was my chronic anxiety that I couldn’t quite keep in check. Perhaps it was the top ups she was getting during her two day stay in the neo-natal unit. Or, perhaps, I am part of the 2% of women in the world who just can’t make milk.
Following an easy pregnancy and a brilliant birth, Alice had a great latch and I could breastfeed without pain, in fact, it felt wonderful. It just wasn’t happening. Alice was hungry, lost too much weight, and at two weeks she was having ‘top ups’. By six weeks these had grown to full bottles, even though she was (and still is) having breast before every meal. I didn’t just accept this low supply either – I pretty much lived on lactation cookies for three weeks, added flaxmeal to everything I ate, tried to rest and express between feeds and cook protein-rich meals like every other super mum. In the end, this regime seemed to take over my life and exhaust me at the same time- and it did nothing. I could see my dream of attachment parenting stroll leisurely out the door, waving as it went.
With every bottle I give Alice now, I still feel a pang of guilt. For a long time I hated giving her to anyone else to feed – I should be the one that is able to feed her and I can’t.
Even though I feel this in my heart, in my head I know I’m doing the right thing. First and foremost, Alice would have starved to death by now if it weren’t for formula, plain and simple. Second, Alice is putting on weight, meeting all her milestones, loves having nuggles, and smiles at me constantly. I have a wonderfully happy, healthy baby. Third, because I still offer breast first, she’s getting antibodies and nutrients as well as a full tummy at the end – all good stuff. I’m hoping this feeling of loss will pass as Alice continues to thrive as she is now. I know lots of great mothers who bottle feed their babies, whether by choice or out of necessity. Even though I feel sadness, I know that Alice is no less loved or taken care of.
And now that I am more confident in my parenting ability I can see a few things more clearly in regards to strangers asking if I’m feeding Alice. I find myself asking why it’s so important to complete strangers how I am feeding this baby. I already feel like I’m smuggling drugs when I pick up a can of formula at the supermarket, I don’t want to explain myself to someone I’m never going to see again. I am aware that this is my own emotional issue, but have we really ever asked ourselves – what on earth gives these strangers the right to know what we do with our breasts?
From Freaked out to Fearless - A Pregnancy Journey.
Written December 9, 2013
I have wanted to be a mother my enitre life, a feeling that has only grown stronger since I met my partner three years ago. However, the thought of labour and birth made my stomach churn and my blood run cold with fear. Media and hearing the stories of mothers had convinced me that labour had to be scary and painful, where mothers lost control of their bodies and what happened to them. This is not appealing to a control freak with a low pain threshhold!
I took the pregnancy test at three in the morning, it was a Monday. It doesn't take three minutes for two lines to appear; it was there in seconds and I'll be honest, I was devastated. I was worried my partner would think that I had "done it on purpose" because I talked about babies so much and he had said he wasn't ready. But more so, I was terrified at the thought of having to grow this little person in my body and then, somehow, get that little person out.
I was frozen with fear. Work suffered and I felt like a zombie. I cried myself to sleep almost every night and had nightmares about giant babies and being lost in the dark. I felt I was out of control and doomed for a scary, painful experience.
Around eleven weeks into my pregnancy the fog cleared a little and I was able to think a little more clearly. It was then that I decided to embrace my controlling tendancies and take charge of this prgnancy.
I began guided meditation, something I would never have considered in the past. A friend suggested hypno-birthing which I found invaluable. the name makes it sound like you sleep through the whole thing but it's quite the opposite; hypno-birthing is learning how to truly trust your body and gives you the tools to make sure your birthing crew do the same. It's aimed at a health system that is far less accomodating of pregnant women and their babies, however in New Zealand, the philosophy fits perfectly with maternity care. I learned how to breathe, how to focus, and how to control what thoughts I dwelled on and what thoughts I let go.
Part of controlling what I thought was the perception I had about the sensations that were happening in my ever changing body. I began smiling every time I felt a twinge in my abdomen or faint with low blood pressure. I had braxton hicks start at 22 weeks; these sensations had me giggling. Smiling releases endorphins, the body's natural pain relief. After weeks of practice I could literally feel endorphins flowing from my brain to my baby. It gave my pregnancy a giddy, surreal quality - and the technique got me through a harrowing dental appointment!
Toward the end of my pregnancy, the birth stories of others came in from left, right and centre. Part of me remaining in control was assuring myself that their experience was not my expereince. I visualised what I thought to be my perfect pregnancy; a time where I could breathe through any discomfort and my body was given time and space to do it's job. I even started telling people that my labour wasn't going to hurt, complete with a big, earnest grin. You should have seen there face!
The last leg of my journey began at 12.00 am on October 4, when I felt my first contraction. I lay in bed, hugging my enormous belly, waiting for the next one. it came five minutes later. I had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing out loud; the endorphins were flowing! I giggled my way through the first ten hours, then hummed and sang through the rest - with amazing help from my support crew toward the end!
I was in labour for 26 hours (active 11) and it was a beautiful, life-changing experience. I fell in love with my partner all over again and felt an amazing amount of respect for my mother. Not once was I scared, out of control, or in fear for my life. I got everything I wanted in my labour. I felt incredibly strong. I sang "she'll be coming 'round the mountain" just as Alice came in to the world. It wasn't without pain, but it was full of wonder and calm and trust above all else.
When I talk to pregnant women who tell me they are frightened, I suggest the stretch and relaxation class at the hospital (your local hospital might have something similar) because part of that is guided meditation - learning how to calm and control your thoughts so you can focus on what really matters. I also say that their experiences don't belong to anyone else, that they are more in control of what happens than they might think. If they ask, I tell them what happened to me - how I learnt to labour and birth fearlessly.
I have wanted to be a mother my enitre life, a feeling that has only grown stronger since I met my partner three years ago. However, the thought of labour and birth made my stomach churn and my blood run cold with fear. Media and hearing the stories of mothers had convinced me that labour had to be scary and painful, where mothers lost control of their bodies and what happened to them. This is not appealing to a control freak with a low pain threshhold!
I took the pregnancy test at three in the morning, it was a Monday. It doesn't take three minutes for two lines to appear; it was there in seconds and I'll be honest, I was devastated. I was worried my partner would think that I had "done it on purpose" because I talked about babies so much and he had said he wasn't ready. But more so, I was terrified at the thought of having to grow this little person in my body and then, somehow, get that little person out.
I was frozen with fear. Work suffered and I felt like a zombie. I cried myself to sleep almost every night and had nightmares about giant babies and being lost in the dark. I felt I was out of control and doomed for a scary, painful experience.
Around eleven weeks into my pregnancy the fog cleared a little and I was able to think a little more clearly. It was then that I decided to embrace my controlling tendancies and take charge of this prgnancy.
I began guided meditation, something I would never have considered in the past. A friend suggested hypno-birthing which I found invaluable. the name makes it sound like you sleep through the whole thing but it's quite the opposite; hypno-birthing is learning how to truly trust your body and gives you the tools to make sure your birthing crew do the same. It's aimed at a health system that is far less accomodating of pregnant women and their babies, however in New Zealand, the philosophy fits perfectly with maternity care. I learned how to breathe, how to focus, and how to control what thoughts I dwelled on and what thoughts I let go.
Part of controlling what I thought was the perception I had about the sensations that were happening in my ever changing body. I began smiling every time I felt a twinge in my abdomen or faint with low blood pressure. I had braxton hicks start at 22 weeks; these sensations had me giggling. Smiling releases endorphins, the body's natural pain relief. After weeks of practice I could literally feel endorphins flowing from my brain to my baby. It gave my pregnancy a giddy, surreal quality - and the technique got me through a harrowing dental appointment!
Toward the end of my pregnancy, the birth stories of others came in from left, right and centre. Part of me remaining in control was assuring myself that their experience was not my expereince. I visualised what I thought to be my perfect pregnancy; a time where I could breathe through any discomfort and my body was given time and space to do it's job. I even started telling people that my labour wasn't going to hurt, complete with a big, earnest grin. You should have seen there face!
The last leg of my journey began at 12.00 am on October 4, when I felt my first contraction. I lay in bed, hugging my enormous belly, waiting for the next one. it came five minutes later. I had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing out loud; the endorphins were flowing! I giggled my way through the first ten hours, then hummed and sang through the rest - with amazing help from my support crew toward the end!
I was in labour for 26 hours (active 11) and it was a beautiful, life-changing experience. I fell in love with my partner all over again and felt an amazing amount of respect for my mother. Not once was I scared, out of control, or in fear for my life. I got everything I wanted in my labour. I felt incredibly strong. I sang "she'll be coming 'round the mountain" just as Alice came in to the world. It wasn't without pain, but it was full of wonder and calm and trust above all else.
When I talk to pregnant women who tell me they are frightened, I suggest the stretch and relaxation class at the hospital (your local hospital might have something similar) because part of that is guided meditation - learning how to calm and control your thoughts so you can focus on what really matters. I also say that their experiences don't belong to anyone else, that they are more in control of what happens than they might think. If they ask, I tell them what happened to me - how I learnt to labour and birth fearlessly.
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