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:
- Go on the public waiting list. They can cut the tie for free, but you will wait up to 10 weeks.
- Go private and have her put under general anaesthetic for the procedure which will cost upwards of $1500.
- 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.
