There's the poster image of motherhood. We all know it, seen them on tv rubbing vapour rub on their child's chest with perfect hair and makeup at 3 am with their comforting faces unwavering.
There's the warm sunny feelings the nappy and baby toy ads talk about. The militant pride that women's leagues and associations furl their flags to.
I do feel amazing things as a mother. Like the swelling of pride when I noticed all the new amazing things Buddyboo can do this week. The wonderment in every new experience and sensation. I can't describe how hilarious it was watching Buddyboo marvel at his own reflection in the mirror for the first time.
The amazing side of motherhood that everyone trumpets is real. It is warm. It is lovely.
But I've found motherhood is also extremely lonely.
I hear how boring I am at adult conversations now. How I have nothing to say even to my own husband that is not an anecdote of the minutiae of a 9 week old's day. And it is common knowledge that 9 week olds don't do much beyond eat, excrete and sleep. I practically have to roll my own eyes when I hear myself describing the change in the consistency of his poop or the slight variances in his sleep cycles.
Motherhood is oft celebrated and acknowledged as one of the toughest things in the world and how mothers are so tough and resilient.
But what if I don't feel strong? What if despite the warm and fuzzy moments I also feel things that aren't celebrated? Things that invoke worry, advice and unwanted misdirected encouragement. Feelings like worthlessness. Lost. Lacklustre. Like I'm just a vessel. A thing. No spark. No life. No one.
It's part and parcel and that's the beautiful tragic dichotomy of my motherhood experience thus far. And I'll take it everytime.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Him and I at two months
So it's been two months. A lot has happened, but then again in some ways not much has.
When I look at the eight week old Buddyboo and I see a real little boy emerging from the gangly cute little monkey newborn he was, I feel at once the infinite stretch of time that's elapsed since I gave birth. I almost have to consciously remember what life was like before I was a mother. You hear people say that all the time, but I feel the full force of such amnesia now.
The loveliness of this is the complete surrender to the wonderfulness of being someone's mother. I don't think it would be everyone's cup of tea, but for me nothing feels warmer than his little button eyes looking up at me and knowing exactly what he wants without a word. I seem to have also developed super bionic ears. I start walking towards his cot at the sound of his mouth opening to a cry from the other side of our apartment. We don't have the biggest place but we do have quite a bit of white noise from the road. My husband often looks at me open mouthed almost wondering if I foresaw that cry or if I really did hear his miniscule jaw opening up to a yelp.
The poop of being someone's mother is well... how to explain. The last 48 hours probably best sums up the yoyo rhythm that my life and ergo, my self has become. At the beginning of the week, I decided that Buddyboo was old enough to get into some sort of routine. The reality is that we were probably already in a natural routine worked out by his tiny little two month old biological clock. Trouble is that his clock is on a two, maybe three hours cycle if we're lucky. Especially at night, getting up every two hours to feed (takes around 30 minutes) and change (sometimes also a 30 minute ordeal of poop explosions and clean up), and settling him to sleep (another 30 minutes) means that I am getting 30 minutes of sleep in between. Which needless to say, absolutely sucks.
So I heard about Gina Ford's Contented Little Baby routine which imposes a very precise timetable for feeds, sleeps and plays which allegedly has millions of happy mothers around the world singing its praises for the uninterrupted 7 hour sleeps their baby achieves. Now I did not buy the book because it is so sought after and expensive for what it probably is. I am generally skeptical of magical self help guides that turn out to be just common sense with marketing. However, I did read enough about parent-led schedules for babies to get the gist and combined it with my own sense of what my baby is like.
I do agree that babies don't know what they want, they merely spontaneously feel hunger, discomfort, tiredness etc but are unable to know what to do about it. I find that when Buddyboo is tired, like most babies he won't just go to sleep, he has to be put to sleep. I carefully zip him up in his swaddle, put on some calming yoga music and sing to him a lullaby I have made up for him. Over time I think he now understands that the combination of all these things is me telling him to sleep. So I decided that a structure to their day is on a grander scale, telling the baby what to do with their hunger, boredom, tiredness etc and thus providing them comfort in predictability when they don't know what to do.
For the past week and half I decided to try this sort of routine:
For a few hours of a day we pretty much stick to it and when that happens I feel like Mother of the Year.
Then there are days when looking back at the end of the day, on balance we sort of stuck to it and I feel like maybe not Mother of the Year but deserving of some sort of small medal anyway.
But always, or I should say ALWAYS there is some point in EVERY day when the wheels fall off, Buddyboo reminding me that he did not get the memo about this so-called routine he's supposed to be on. He shows his complete indifference to this routine I've devised by crying inconsolably despite being fed and cleaned, or refusing just flat out REFUSING to go to sleep despite being in fits of rage at his exhaustion. His face contorts red, his fists beating at my chest in frustration or rubbing his eyes, yelping in desperation helplessly ignorant of the simple fact that if he just stopped and slept, his discomfort would ease.
It's tiring. So tiring. There are hours of tireless coaxing, lullaby singing, rocking, swinging, shushing a baby to sleep, only to have my marathon effort at baby whispering completely shattered by an alarming bowel movement, or just inexplicably startling awake. There are many dinners left to grow cold because inevitably the baby calls out for me always at the beginning of a beautiful meal cooked by the hubby. At least the dinners I don't have to worry too much about. Husband is currently very enthusiastic about cooking and for that I am thankful and will proceed to lap it up while it lasts.
Yesterday was one of those days when everything just went wrong. "Wrong" I suppose is the wrong word. Noone said this schedule I decided on was the "right" way. I suppose by setting a schedule I also constructed a standard that a baby could never understand and therefore I am destined to never achieve it.
Budyboo woke up in the morning and just wanted to sleep and cry, sleep and cry all day long. He was not hungry, sick or in pain as far as I could tell. It was like something was going on in his little head, little neurons connecting, new sensations he could not explain. His eyes looked overwhelmed by some invisible phenomenon and I could not help him. No matter how much I comforted him there was nothing I could do and I had often been told that babies just do this sometimes.
I was alone at home for hours on end of the same cycle of baby despair. The clock usually dumb on the wall was somehow loudly reprimanding of all the routine markers I'd missed. With each passing hour I watched the aspirational routine dissolve along with my confidence.
When days like yesterday happen, I start questioning everything. Is he hungry? Or tired? Or both? Each little sign that was just a few hours ago so clear to read were now contradictory at every turn. I find myself force feeding a baby that in hindsight was never hungry. Or putting to sleep a baby who was just hungry. My self confidence explodes just like poop into a dirty nappy.
And this gloomy force cascades into all other forms of self doubt. As I hold the crying baby in my arms not really sure what to do with him anymore, I start wondering if I know anything at all. I wonder who I really am. I start wondering if I am more than a patting, swinging, shushing rock-a-bye milk jug and whether I am still the woman I was before any of this.
The self that was a lawyer confidently advocating for people's rights to a stuck up Magistrate was completely defenseless ironically to a helpless baby. Was I still that person who could do so much more than change nappies and breastfeed in her pyjamas all day long?
It's a dark road from there but I tell myself to just keep on walking.. slowly, in time to the gentle pats I am giving to the little one's bottom to soothe his despair.
Eventually after hours of breakdowns and run ins, it just stops. He coos. He smiles right into me as if to say "I know mummy". And right there in the middle of the night with poop in my hands and hair, I know I could and would do this forever.
I see him and his chubby little legs and feel glee knowing that Ihave physically and mentally contributed to those cute sausage limbs. Most of all I see that in the space of eight weeks, both him and I together have come so far. And maybe that's why my past life seemed like a lifetime ago.
When I look at the eight week old Buddyboo and I see a real little boy emerging from the gangly cute little monkey newborn he was, I feel at once the infinite stretch of time that's elapsed since I gave birth. I almost have to consciously remember what life was like before I was a mother. You hear people say that all the time, but I feel the full force of such amnesia now.
The loveliness of this is the complete surrender to the wonderfulness of being someone's mother. I don't think it would be everyone's cup of tea, but for me nothing feels warmer than his little button eyes looking up at me and knowing exactly what he wants without a word. I seem to have also developed super bionic ears. I start walking towards his cot at the sound of his mouth opening to a cry from the other side of our apartment. We don't have the biggest place but we do have quite a bit of white noise from the road. My husband often looks at me open mouthed almost wondering if I foresaw that cry or if I really did hear his miniscule jaw opening up to a yelp.
The poop of being someone's mother is well... how to explain. The last 48 hours probably best sums up the yoyo rhythm that my life and ergo, my self has become. At the beginning of the week, I decided that Buddyboo was old enough to get into some sort of routine. The reality is that we were probably already in a natural routine worked out by his tiny little two month old biological clock. Trouble is that his clock is on a two, maybe three hours cycle if we're lucky. Especially at night, getting up every two hours to feed (takes around 30 minutes) and change (sometimes also a 30 minute ordeal of poop explosions and clean up), and settling him to sleep (another 30 minutes) means that I am getting 30 minutes of sleep in between. Which needless to say, absolutely sucks.
So I heard about Gina Ford's Contented Little Baby routine which imposes a very precise timetable for feeds, sleeps and plays which allegedly has millions of happy mothers around the world singing its praises for the uninterrupted 7 hour sleeps their baby achieves. Now I did not buy the book because it is so sought after and expensive for what it probably is. I am generally skeptical of magical self help guides that turn out to be just common sense with marketing. However, I did read enough about parent-led schedules for babies to get the gist and combined it with my own sense of what my baby is like.
I do agree that babies don't know what they want, they merely spontaneously feel hunger, discomfort, tiredness etc but are unable to know what to do about it. I find that when Buddyboo is tired, like most babies he won't just go to sleep, he has to be put to sleep. I carefully zip him up in his swaddle, put on some calming yoga music and sing to him a lullaby I have made up for him. Over time I think he now understands that the combination of all these things is me telling him to sleep. So I decided that a structure to their day is on a grander scale, telling the baby what to do with their hunger, boredom, tiredness etc and thus providing them comfort in predictability when they don't know what to do.
For the past week and half I decided to try this sort of routine:
For a few hours of a day we pretty much stick to it and when that happens I feel like Mother of the Year.
Then there are days when looking back at the end of the day, on balance we sort of stuck to it and I feel like maybe not Mother of the Year but deserving of some sort of small medal anyway.
But always, or I should say ALWAYS there is some point in EVERY day when the wheels fall off, Buddyboo reminding me that he did not get the memo about this so-called routine he's supposed to be on. He shows his complete indifference to this routine I've devised by crying inconsolably despite being fed and cleaned, or refusing just flat out REFUSING to go to sleep despite being in fits of rage at his exhaustion. His face contorts red, his fists beating at my chest in frustration or rubbing his eyes, yelping in desperation helplessly ignorant of the simple fact that if he just stopped and slept, his discomfort would ease.
It's tiring. So tiring. There are hours of tireless coaxing, lullaby singing, rocking, swinging, shushing a baby to sleep, only to have my marathon effort at baby whispering completely shattered by an alarming bowel movement, or just inexplicably startling awake. There are many dinners left to grow cold because inevitably the baby calls out for me always at the beginning of a beautiful meal cooked by the hubby. At least the dinners I don't have to worry too much about. Husband is currently very enthusiastic about cooking and for that I am thankful and will proceed to lap it up while it lasts.
Yesterday was one of those days when everything just went wrong. "Wrong" I suppose is the wrong word. Noone said this schedule I decided on was the "right" way. I suppose by setting a schedule I also constructed a standard that a baby could never understand and therefore I am destined to never achieve it.
Budyboo woke up in the morning and just wanted to sleep and cry, sleep and cry all day long. He was not hungry, sick or in pain as far as I could tell. It was like something was going on in his little head, little neurons connecting, new sensations he could not explain. His eyes looked overwhelmed by some invisible phenomenon and I could not help him. No matter how much I comforted him there was nothing I could do and I had often been told that babies just do this sometimes.
I was alone at home for hours on end of the same cycle of baby despair. The clock usually dumb on the wall was somehow loudly reprimanding of all the routine markers I'd missed. With each passing hour I watched the aspirational routine dissolve along with my confidence.
When days like yesterday happen, I start questioning everything. Is he hungry? Or tired? Or both? Each little sign that was just a few hours ago so clear to read were now contradictory at every turn. I find myself force feeding a baby that in hindsight was never hungry. Or putting to sleep a baby who was just hungry. My self confidence explodes just like poop into a dirty nappy.
And this gloomy force cascades into all other forms of self doubt. As I hold the crying baby in my arms not really sure what to do with him anymore, I start wondering if I know anything at all. I wonder who I really am. I start wondering if I am more than a patting, swinging, shushing rock-a-bye milk jug and whether I am still the woman I was before any of this.
The self that was a lawyer confidently advocating for people's rights to a stuck up Magistrate was completely defenseless ironically to a helpless baby. Was I still that person who could do so much more than change nappies and breastfeed in her pyjamas all day long?
It's a dark road from there but I tell myself to just keep on walking.. slowly, in time to the gentle pats I am giving to the little one's bottom to soothe his despair.
Eventually after hours of breakdowns and run ins, it just stops. He coos. He smiles right into me as if to say "I know mummy". And right there in the middle of the night with poop in my hands and hair, I know I could and would do this forever.
I see him and his chubby little legs and feel glee knowing that Ihave physically and mentally contributed to those cute sausage limbs. Most of all I see that in the space of eight weeks, both him and I together have come so far. And maybe that's why my past life seemed like a lifetime ago.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
My first ever mother's day
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| Sunday 12 May 2013 |
* Mother's Day meant I could eat whatever I wanted which meant we had pancakes. WIN!
*Had my first breastfeeding in public experience, incidentally whilst I was eating pancakes. I was merely a vessel for pancakes and maple syrup for the little guy. Secretly hoped someone would chide me so I could rile up the ABA and spark a militant breastfeed sit in protest.
* Quite literally poop was on today's list of remarkables. There I was thinking it was just an ordinary nappy change. I go to make the final wipe down of the little prince's bottom and poooff.... a gentle foamy yelllow gush farts out of his little pooper. Hmm that's strange. I wipe it off and then again pOOOF, this time a bit stronger.
This happens several times until eventually I am panic yelling for Dad to come and witness this yellow foamy fountain streaming out of our son's butt.
It had the consistency of those fancy foam soups one might try to attempt on My Kitchen Rules. Except really really yellow. And that it's poop. And someone had put this concoction into a champagne bottle in his butt and uncorked it in celebration.
Projectile shit foam all over the change table and its surrounds. An innocent bystanding packet of baby wipes a casualty of baby poop coming to it rather than the other way around. Another unschedule bath for the little man.
I have no photos of this poop explosion for which the world should thank me. If I did it would be a carnage of soiled tissues, a mountain of wipes I had thrown in desperation and one smug looking baby in the middle.
* I cried today at the thought that I still can't properly breastfeed my baby. It is so damn frustrating not getting it right and watching your baby cry in hunger because we both haven't quite worked it out yet.
* Realising that we did not change Buddyboo's nappy for a whopping 9 hours last night. Whoops. Please don't tell DOCS on us.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
My Breasting Journey
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| Saturday 11 May 2013 |
*Leaving the house and feeling the sun in my face. Having a newborn means getting ready to leave the house is a bit like trying to empty a sinking boat of water with a shitty plastic cup. Which made today's trip to the shops for a frozen yoghurt treat all the more of a deeeelight. Had one of those watermelon ones with gummy rice cake topping. It says a lot when a franchise dessert is a highlight for the week.
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| Handsfree hugging |
*Saturdays. Unexpectedly so, I still find myself looking forward to weekends as a stay at home mum. Weekends mean that Dad is around to help out, cop some of the midnight nappy changes, hand me a drink without having to disturb a sleeping baby in my arms, a second pair of arms when mine are tired. Basically the privilege of peeing whenever I want is restored. The rest of the week Dad is excused from night duties so he can clock some beauty sleep for his day ahead. Dad was definitely MVP today (but not last night.. see poopy point below). Just look at this bloody freakin beautiful dinner he made for us.
*A two hour afternoon cuddle-fest/nap on the couch with Buddyboo. Sleep + baby love = everything I need right now.
*Noticing Buddyboo's increasing number of chins. Oh it fills me with joy that my nutritious milk is indeed nutritive. Looking forward to turning my skinny baby into a fattyboomsticks.
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| I think we're up to three chins at the moment |
*Breastfeeding. Hot damn it's hard. It's almost like a quest for me now.. I just want to kill at breastfeeding. I want to be a champ. Like if there was a tournament, I'd want to be a seeded player at least. And Buddyboo's recent weight gain is egging me on. Also, I've decided I don't like the word breastfeeding. I shall call it "breasting" from hereforth.
*I read a woman's blog on the internet today about her "breasfeeding journey". It was all touchy feely and exploring all the different issues that come up. There's so much theory to breasting, I wish there was less thinking and more intuitive doing.
*Everything you do as a mum seems to promote boob flattening. Carrying, feeding, comforting, burping all seem to exert downward force in the chest region. Here's my interpretation of the trajectory of my breasting journey.
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| Week 0: the look I was going for |
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| Week 1-2: Engorgement |
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| Weeks 3-4: Mastitis |
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| Weeks 5-6: Breast pumps and paraphernalia |
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| Weeks forever on: voila, your boobs woman |
*Do not like it when Dad sleep talks insensitively at night. It basically goes something like:
3am. Baby just been fed in an epic battle with mummy's boobs. I'm on the verge of tears because it was so difficult.
me: hey hun, can you change his nappy?
dad: stares blankly at me. Becomes obvious he is actually still asleep. Says absolutely nothing.
me: I said, do you mind changing his nappy?
dad: thinks for a second. Naah... turns and goes back to sleep pulling the blanket over him
me: pokes dad a few times.... nothing. Decide quicker to do it myself.
This happens a few times over the night until I am just fuming. I start sobbing about how I feel unsupported and how it might as well be a weekday, and why was I stupid enough to look forward the weekend when he was just going to opt out of helping. Finally Dad wakes up swearing on his son's life that he had no conscious recollection of any of the number of insensitive interactions we had while he slept. If only Buddyboo inherited his father's superpower of sleeping through anything. Oh well... that prosciutto salad we had for dinner made up for it.
Too tired. I'm going to bed.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Buddyboo and his first poop
Hello!
This first post reflects on the last five weeks that little Buddyboo has entered and rocked our worlds.
I'm a first time mum deciding to record the ups and downs of discovering life with a first time baby aka Buddyboo, the most beautifulest, wonderfulest baby in the world. Don't call me biased because I'm fairly sure what I just said is evidence-based and scientifically accurate. Just ask my sidekick first time dad.
It seems parenting comes with a lot of lovely moments and a lot of poop. Thought this blog would be a good way of not letting the little lovely and poopy things fly away into forgotten. When you stay at home as a mum and every day and night blends into the next in a sea of nappy changes and late night sessions... all the little things are like precious golden nuggets of memories. I've missed so many little memories in just five weeks. This post is probably going to be longer than usual. So as a whole so far, here they are.....
* Buddyboo is officially the best baby in the history of the entire universe. His face is like magic my heart combusts into a milky way of warm and fuzzies when I look at him. His breath is so heavenly I sit there just smelling him like a crazy person. It's amazing how one can wordlessly and unconditionally love a tiny little being whom you've just met.
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| At one week old... he's so much bigger than this already |
*Buddyboo today attaining the ripe old age of 5 weeks old. Best accomplishment in life so far (apart from being awesome despite the absence of the power of speech or controlled mobility) - the Lucas Heights sized dump he did yesterday while we were out... and sleeping on his own for four solid hours. Other notable accomplishments, smiling, some neck control during tummy time, and managing to no longer green mushroom cloud explode poop into his baths as he did the first time. I'm almost tempted to say he quite likes a warm bath these days.
*First time dad aka Big Lovely, on board and goes for "Most Valuable Player" award everyday. Wins "Most Enthusiastic" most days. Does lovely things like make sandwiches for me before leaving the house each morning so I can just shovel into my mouth and not get in the way of caring for Buddyboo. Today, I saw his gentle reminder to please eat something healthy by strategically placing yoghurt and a pear suggestively in the most accessible part of the fridge. It was obstructing my stash of TimTams. Also, check out his gourmet dinner plans laid out and managed on our fridge door. A feat given his full schedule. What a star.
*Feeling needed. Eventhough a newborn's clinginess to his mother can mean I don't pee all day, or that I've rushed through each shower I've ever had in the last 5 weeks, or that I often have to choose between eating or sleeping but not both... it is nice to know that this person needs you so much, has to have you cuddle him so much and I often wonder and hope, loves you so much too. He is utterly and hopelessly dependent on us.. one day when he rebelliously moves out of home against our advice and lives his own life and marries some whore who will never be good enough for him, I am going to look back at these moments with warm fondness. I'm joking about the whore bit by the way, I'm sure he/she will be lovely if Buddyboo loves them.
*Confoundment and the endless guessing game. "Why is he crying?" beeping permanently through my head like I'm a sonar radar in mission control.
*Helplessness when you can't get the right answer to question above after trying everything on the list they gave you at parenting class. At the end you have a well-fed, clean nappied, recently poopied, burped, appropriately dressed baby who is still upset at the world.
*Sleeplessness and the guilt that comes with sleepy parenting. A newborn brings with it lots of joy and love. However, it doth taketh away any humanly possible chance of sleep.
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| A clinical sign of sleeplessness |
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| Should put this in Hushamok's comments box as a suggested modification |
The other secret game sleepy parents often play is with our conscience called "Should I change him now or wait for the next poop to pile on top". After running the play off between logic like "It's better for the environment if one nappy catches two poops" against "noone wants to sleep in their own shit"... eventually this sleepy parent gets up and guiltily changes the nappy.
*Breastfeeding wars and the holy grail for the perfect latch. Buddyboo appears to have a short tongue and causes an uncomfortable scraping of the nipple with each suck leaving me sorely raw each time. He also seems determined to drink from my boob as though it were a straw that he must chomp and purse his lips on. It's like a dull piece of glass teasing your nipple endlessly. I hear they still use this nipple boarding technique in Guantanamo.
*Knowing my milk jugs are abundantly full and plentiful, yet the lil guy won't or can't get it out because of his fish lips drinking habits. I end up sitting there for two hours trying to siphon a whole lot of milk through the tiniest opening that is his pathetic latch. Before you know it, it's time for the next feed. It's like Groundhog Day - the Breastfeeding Sequel, only the loop is 2-3 hourly feeds eight to ten times a day.
*The PUPPS, ie the itchiest rash known to man. Or given that it's a pregnancy related rash... it's not likely to be known to man. I've had it since I was 36 weeks pregnant. It's supposed to go away after delivery but in my case, it supernova'd into a universe of angry red papules all over my body (except my face, my angry face fire must have scared it away). Weeks and weeks of angry constant itching has been poopy indeed. Alas, the onset of colder weather seems to be scaring it away... and I hope I do not speak to soon when I say that after weeks of oatmeal baths, stinky pine tar soap and raw tearful itching.. it might finally be waning.
There are a few other things that fall by the wayside. Like how right now I literally have poop and breastmilk on my shirt. The actual poop and disgusting secretions, I don't really care so much.
Cliche train alert. It's all worth it. I've never been happier. He is the greatest thing I've ever done. I feel complete. Goddam I can't help but admit it, despite all the poop the cliches are all true. I love my new family :)
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