The Perfect Mum

Ironically, those lactation cookies actually worked. Even more ironic was when I realised that I was gutted that they had. But, once I realised this, suddenly everything became clear. I am done with the breast feeding.

Literally, as soon as I realised that, everything changed. I felt lighter than I had in ages, I suddenly had all this energy to play with Baby Bean, I wasn't in a constant state of guilt and anguish and the stubborn drive to persevere was no longer plaguing my every thought.

I feel like I can finally focus on just being her mum, rather than trying to live up to this perfect ideal of what her mum should be. In my head, this is the ideal I felt I had to reach for.

Well, let me tell you, if you are this person, then I salute you, NAY, BOW TO YOU!
You are a goddess of epic proportions and you should be given a medal. A really fucking big diamond medal.

I haven't met you yet though, which is strange considering that before Bean was born I believed you existed everywhere. I really thought that perhaps, I could even be you.

But alas, I cannot. In fact, in appears that despite the fact that this is what every mother is encouraged to be, told to be, and believes that she SHOULD BE, this perfect mum is a mythical creature who exists only in magazines and parenting books. The reality of mummyhood is far uglier, far less photogenic and definitely wouldn't sell magazines.

So, having reconciled the fact that me breastfeeding Bean to the age of 2 years and beyond is not a realistic nor achievable goal for our family, I feel my tight grasp on attempting to be a magazine mum disappearing. The guilt is sliding away with it, and with every bottle of formula I feed her, I feel more relaxed. I am becoming me again, and in the process, I am becoming her mum rather than trying to be societies version of her mum. The best mum for her, and the best mum for me. So for the first time in a very long time, Bean and I spent a fantastic, relaxed day together. She slept sometimes, and I napped then too, because I wasn't pumping. I cleaned a bit and played with her, did some baking and we even went out to the wildlife zoo together. When Hubby got home, I went out and bought a new bra and I feel fabulous.

The Breastfeeding Post

It begins in the hospital. The minute you are in recovery after giving birth, they try to latch baby on, if this doesn't work right away, they start prodding you, squeezing you and syringing colostrum out of you. Every three hours a midwife comes and repeats the process, but you are so tired and exhausted, you don't care about how weird or humiliating or degrading it is to have someone do this to you.

If this doesn't work and your milk doesn't come in soon enough, they hook you up to giant pumps which make such a racket you really will imagine you are in a milking shed. When that fails to have the desired impact, you start to ask about formula.

Every 6 or 7 hours the midwives change shifts, and you get a new one, sometimes they are friendly, sometimes they look stressed. You must explain your story to them every single time. I haven't got my milk yet. Baby won't latch. I have inverted nipples. There is nothing to latch on to. They've tried that, and that, and that, and now we are using a shield. Please could I give her some formula, because she won't stop crying.

At first they ignore you, pretend they haven't heard you, but if you persist long enough, or raise your voice loud enough, because you think it's only fair that your baby should be fed somehow, then they will lecture you about how great breast milk is and that you must keep trying.

If you are still kicking up a fuss after all this, despite how tired, how sore and how emotional you are  (because just hours ago you gave birth to a baby after 25 hours of labour, and you haven't slept in close to 40 hours and you have no idea who this infant is in your arms and you really thought you'd love it instantly), but you still can't feed the baby, then they will bring you pamphlets on the ill effects of formula, and then a form for you to sign off your consent for every single formula feed.

Then they will bring you a tiny cup, and put a little bit of formula into it. And you will ask, as a new midwife you haven't yet been introduced you attacks your breasts with cold hands and a syringe, "why can't I feed her with a bottle?" They will respond without smiles, "we don't want her to get used to feeding from a bottle."

So eventually you are allowed to go home. You still haven't figured this breastfeeding thing out, and you know if your heart that baby will never latch without the shield. But you keep trying.

For two months you live a daily ritual of pumping, bottle feeding, attempted breast feeding. For two months, every single formula top up you give her will make you feel incredibly guilty. Every midwife visit, every plunket visit,  and every doctor visit you must explain why you are bottle feeding, explain why you use a shield, explain why you are using formula, explain why you are in this situation. And every single time you will feel like a failure as they look at you and ask the exact same questions you have now been asked a hundred times over. "Have you seen a lactation consultant?" "Can I have a look?" "Are you pumping to feed her expressed milk?""Have you tried x, y, z?"

Then miraculously, at 3 months you succeed! For a full 3 weeks you manage to feed her a diet of nothing but breastmilk. You are beside yourself with excitement and feel like a good mother for the first time since she was born.

Then at four months, everything changes. Baby starts refusing the breast, you have a graze on your breast where the shield rubs every time she feeds and you are in pain. You start turning to pumping, and bottles, and formula again, and everyone asks why, why, why? As if somehow it's their business.

A plunket nurse comes to visit, and you try to explain what's been going on, but all they say is, 'when she's hungry enough she'll feed, don't give in and give her a bottle, or that's all she'll want." So you feel rubbish again, and cry again, and wonder where you went so wrong.

Then finally, out of nowhere, a nurse asks if she has a tongue tie. You respond that someone mentioned she did in the hospital, but that it was unlikely to be a problem. But this nurse insists that you get a second opinion. So, at your wits end, you do. You find out that she does have a tongue tie, that it is definitely a problem, and then you get it cut and everything changes.

But by now, your milk is all but gone. You are feeding her formula for almost every feed.
And you really have given all you can give.

But you go to a breastfeeding support group, and get one last burst of motivation. You find a recipe for lactation cookies to try and relactate. You start pumping every two hours again to boost your supply. You take fenugreek tablets to help the milk come back. But this is has to be the last attempt.

If this doesn't work, this really has to be the end.

And so, for a week you flip-flop hourly between definitely stopping, and then trying to relactate again. You can't figure out why you feel so miserable and guilty and sad about it all, when you actually desperately want to stop and feel good about it. You imagine that everyone is thinking badly of you, and you tell yourself you have to keep trying.

And all this, because of the start in the hospital. Because the midwives and medias breastfeeding propaganda has well and truly worked on you. Because even though you are in an impossible situation, you still wont give yourself a break.

So you give it one, last, go. If it doesn't work by this Friday, you are going to go and buy a new non-maternity bra. And you are going to leave the breast feeding journey behind you.

A Love Letter

Dear Sleep,
I miss you so much.
I truly loved you, and I'm sorry I never showed you enough appreciation before. It's been so long since I spent any real time with you, I can't even recall the last time we were together for longer than a couple of hours, and that makes me so sad. It makes me want to cry.

My darling, Sleep, I took you for granted, and I'll never make that mistake again. I'm sorry it took this tiny, sleepless being to wake me up and show me how much you mean to me. But I guess it's too late for sorry, isn't it, Sleep? Because now you are just toying with me. Playing hard-to-get and giving me glimpses of what I could have, but never actually coming through with the goods. You're leading me on, Sleep, and that hurts. But do you know what hurts the most, Sleep? The amount of time you spend with my husband, right in front of me, all through the night. That hurts, Sleep. That is really unfair. You could at least say hello to me, even a simple acknowledgement of my presence wouldn't go amiss. But you don't, do you, Sleep. You just keep on laughing at me, spending time in snoresville with him, giving him hilarious dreams and unbroken slumber. What did I do to deserve that, Sleep?

Now, instead of lying down and knowing that you'll be with me soon, I can only fantastise about such bliss, such all consuming, uninterrupted dozing. Those wonderful afternoons spent on the couch in the sun, we're not going to have those again any time soon, are we, Sleep? Nor will we enjoy those lazy weekend lay-ins together, huddled under the duvet with our heads buried under the pillows, pretending it isn't day time yet. There are so many fond memories, I'll cherish them greatly.

I hope one day you'll come back to me. I hope that day is soon. I don't know how I'm going to live without you, Sleep. Please, don't abandon me completely. I don't think I could survive. I understand that I've brought this on myself, but Sleep, please don't forget about me, ok?

I promise I'll wait for you. Until then, I'll cuddle up in bed super early, and wear my snuggliest pyjamas, and even wear the prettiest eye mask to block out the nightlight that I leave on, so that I don't feel so lonely when you're gone. I'll do this every night until you return to me.

Because, Sleep, I love you.

Comfort Eating In The Car

This is the story of how I came to be comfort eating in my car while it's parked in my driveway, with Baby asleep in her carseat.

The term 'comfort eating' is perhaps an understatement. Comfort sounds nice. Comfort implies cuddly and warm, happiness and a kind of homely beauty. This was none of those things.

This was ugly.
This redefined comfort eating. Into ugly, ugly eating.

But let me start at the beginning.

Two days ago I was at struggling to bottle feed the Little Bean at my plunket parents education group while the nurse was attempting to answer my question 'why won't my baby suck on the pacifier' above the screams of the Bean's fussing. The nurse looked at me and asked in return, "does your baby have a tongue tie, because the way she's feeding right now, is a classic tongue tie symptom."
I shrugged, "the Lactation Consultants at the hospital said she had a small one, but that it was nothing to worry about," to which the entire room of mums spontaneously shook their heads and words of 'second opinions' and 'they said that for me' and 'always brushing them off' circulated around me.

As the nurse went on to talk about the need for us to be advocates for our babies, I quickly fell into a haze of bad mummy guilt. All this time I'd thought I was doing something wrong, that Baby Bean was rejecting me, that we were using the wrong kind of bottle teats, that we were suffering through nursing strikes, and fussiness, early weaning or gas. I'd been frustrated at her for always pulling away after 3 sucks of breast or bottle, and when I'd asked the community care nurse about it, she had said 'when she's hungry enough, she'll eat, don't give her a bottle'. I followed that advice for 3 whole hours. I had been worried that her weight was no longer keeping up with her height, but had no idea how to feed her more because all feedings had become a nightmare of fussing, lip smacking and an inability to suck properly. I'd been angry with her, I'd told her to shush, I'd told her to quiet down and focus. I'd tried to remain calm when inside I was screaming at her. We'd almost become completely formula fed because of the stress of it all and I felt angry and helpless and sad.

But now there was potentially a reason, and one that had a simple solution. The idea of it was too much to bear and I cried all the way home, whereupon I instantly emailed my LC and begged her to help us.

The next day I drove to the drop in clinic and convinced a doctor (who had to google tongue tie in front of me) that I needed a referral, which he gave me, and after a cancellation at the referred doctor, we had an appointment for the very next day!

SUCCESS!

So, feeling like less of a horrible mum, I drove my Baby to the ENT Specialist, feeling apprehensive and hopeful in equal measures, blissfully unaware of the horror of which I was about to be a part.

After a short introduction, interview and examination, the (clearly fairly wealthy judging by the photos of immaculate private schooled kids on his dustless shelf) specialist agreed that Little Bean had quite a bad tongue tie, given that she was unable to touch the roof of her mouth, or extend her tongue beyond her gum-line. He offered me three options:

1. Go on the public waiting list. They can cut the tie for free, but you will wait up to 10 weeks.
2. Go private and have her put under general anaesthetic for the procedure which will cost upwards of $1500.
3. Give her a local anaesthetic now, and snip!

I chose the third door. 

It began with a numbing spray, which was fine, but not great. Apparently it tasted very bad, and meant she stopped being able to deal with saliva. It sounded a bit like she might be drowning.

Then I was instructed to place one hand around her body to hold her arms in place, and hold her head still with the other hand.
I honestly felt like we were going to torture her, and my anxiety was through the roof. I turned my head to look at the super fancy clock on the wall, but that didn't save me from the sound of her choking on or spit, or the sound of the scissors. It definitely did not save me from the supernatural scream which came right after.

My poor Baby Bean looked like a tiny baby vampire who had been stopped mid-feed.

There was blood pooling in her mouth, and dribbling down her chin, and no matter what I did, for what seemed like an age - but was really only 5 minutes - she was screaming at a volume I can definitely say I have never heard come from those lungs ever before.

For those moments, I was convinced that I was the mother from hell.

And that is how I came to be here, classily eating an unholy portion of KFC in my car. Which is parked in my driveway. While Baby Bean sleeps in the back seat.

Because the minute we got in the car and drove away, she fell asleep, and I fell apart.

But fear not, dear reader, this story has a happy ending. She has been super happy all afternoon, and even starting to make some interesting new sounds. Not only that, but we've had three fuss free feeds since coming home! But how crazy is it, that if I hadn't signed up for that parenting course in a bid to meet some other mums, then perhaps we may never have realised that all these issues could be fixed so quickly. Fingers crossed that things get a bit easier now.

The Wonder Weeks.

For those of you not in the know, 'The Wonder Weeks' is a book which outlines 10 major mental developmental leaps a baby takes within their first twenty months on earth. It is based on a scientific study conducted by a husband and wife team, who discovered these leaps and solved every parents problems by writing a book about it, and making lots of money.

I was quickly alerted to this books existence within weeks of Baby being born. "I'm SAVED!" I thought, non too quietly to all who would listen. "Finally, I will know what is going on. I will know why Little Bean is so cranky. I will have the answers as to how to make it easier to cope with."

Alas, I was mistaken.

Because, you see dear reader, those weeks of 'wonder' occur during the following weeks after baby's 'due date':

4.5 - 5.5 weeks.
7.5 - 9.5 weeks
11.5 - 12.5 weeks
14.5 - 19.5 weeks
22.5 - 26.5 weeks
Then you have a lovely 'calm spell', although be warned, there could be a rough patch at weeks 26.5 - 30.5, but lucky for you, this isn't associated with anything wonderful.

Then we are straight back into the wonder at...

33.5 - 37.5 weeks
41.5 - 48.5
50.5 - 54.5
59.5 - 64.5
and finally,
70.5 - 75.5

Of course, these are all approximate and given to taking or giving a week here and there. So it's not a very exact science.

I do appreciate that they have tried to make it easy on us Newbie Parents though, outlining the 3 C's of what to look out for. The signals that a change is imminent. The 3 C's being, crying, cranky and clingy. Not cuddly, cute and calm as you may have hoped for such a wonderful week.

I am baffled.
I feel it would have been a lot more helpful to have concluded from the study, the following facts.

1. Your baby will go through developmental changes in roughly this order.
2. They will happen over a period of roughly two years.
3. No baby will achieve all the changes at once, or at the same time as other babies.
4. Your baby will be cranky, crying and clingy for the majority of those two years.

I particularly liked the part in the book where they let you know that if you are feeling 'stressed and frustrated', it's just a sign that a wonder week is occurring.

As far as I'm concerned, a 'wonder week' by their definition is constantly occurring around here. The book is badly titled, and very misleading. I believe it should be titled, '2 Years Of Hell'. Or perhaps even, 'Why You Are Living With The Spawn Of Satan: But never fear, some weeks they'll be angels." 

The true wonder weeks, which are actually wonderful, are few and far between, as you can see by the 'gaps' between the above wonder weeks. I think it would have been much better use of their precious study time to let us know when THOSE weeks will occur. Give or take a few of course. Because every baby is different. And really, who knows what's going on.

No Time.

I was going to write about why I absolutely can not leave Little Bean to 'cry it out' to sleep.

But then I realised it was none of your business what I decide to do and why should I have to justify myself to anyone. So, I decided not to.

Instead, I'm going to write about feminist culture, evolution of western society and how our preoccupation with equal rights for women has backfired on the stay at home mum.

So yeah.

.....


.....


....

Actually, I might do that tomorrow.

Come back then.

Taking A Nap

I have started this blog entry three times now.

This is how hard I tried to get Little Bean to fall asleep for a nap today.

I put her in her cot. Curtains drawn, mobile on, heater on to take chill of the air.
This did not work.

I picked her up, swayed a bit, hummed a song, patted her bum.
This did not work.

Changed nappy, attempted breastfeed.
This. Did. Not. Work.

Bottle feed.
No.

Pacifier.
No.

Walked around with her.
No.

Rocking chair.
No.

Recliner chair.
No.

Sofa.
No.

Second attempt at breastfeeding.
HELL NO!

Blankets on. Blankets off. Mobile on. Mobile off.
No. No. No and NO!

I hung a sheet over the curtains to make the room darker.
No.

We went for a walk in the pram.
WIDE AWAKE.

Some more play gym time.
No.

Sitting in Bouncer.
No.

More walking. More singing. More patting. Rubbing. Cuddling. Rocking. Jiggling.
NO NO NO NO
NO!

Between 11am this morning, and 4:30 this afternoon, I had an awake Baby. And before you say, "maybe she wasn't tired", let me tell you something. A 4mo is 'supposed' to have THREE naps a day. THREE! She was yawning at 12:30. Rubbing her eyes soon after. She may have been awake, but she should have been sleeping.

Husband came home at 4:30. Picked her up and sat in the rocking chair with her.

Bottle feed.
Yes please.

Sleep?
"you know what Daddy? That sounds swell."

BAM!
Out like a light on Daddy's shoulder.

I feel completely rejected. Clearly, I am the worlds most incompetent mother.

An Insight

Yesterday things went pretty well. I was planning to blog about how my hair has finally started falling out, apparently that happens after you have a baby. A wonderful hormonal side effect which is delayed if you are breastfeeding. Along with everything else, apparently.

But I am so tired. Little Bean is making a horrible whining, whingy sound which isn't a cry, or a grumble, or anything. I honestly have no idea why she is making it. She sounds incredibly tired, which doesn't surprise me, she hasn't slept much lately. Overnights appear to have gone backwards from good long stretches of up to 6 or 7 hours on a good night, to three hours if you're lucky. Yet she won't sleep. I've tried everything. Feeding, cuddling, leaving her, walking, patting, playing, changing nappies, yes dummy, no dummy and probably something not listed here.

So here is a video. So you can share my pain. Be warned, it shows the really glamorous side of parenting.

NB: I lied. I was in fact, half dressed, I had however been interrupted during the process, and was therefore still half not dressed.

30 minutes later: Wouldn't you know it. I put her in her bouncer and she's happy as Larry. There is no reason to this madness.

5 minutes later: Oh wait. Not happy anymore.