Look out - it's an avalanche!

I decided to write this post as I found myself shoving an armful of wet, sweet, sticky clothes, cushion covers and towels into the washing machine.

Don’t get excited, this is not some raunchy story about how James got me pregnant.

Let’s rewind to the 30 mins prior. James had cricket later in the day and knowing I’d be with Miss Munchkin for the whole arvo offered to give her the next feed. Brilliant. A little bit of time to pop down the street, grab some things (in that Mum  ‘I’m-just-popping-down-the-street’ way) and get him a coffee. As I left he was just sitting down with bottle in hand and baby in arm.

For anyone who knows me, ‘down the street’ is literally only two minutes away. So my maximum round trip could only be like 15 minutes. Even with a coffee order. I’ll pause here for a moment just to interject that James is an amazing father. One of those guys who was born to parent. He’s totally natural and not afraid of the pint sized human like some guys can be. I trust him implicitly with our precious person and have no doubt in his ability to parent her. Ok. Just needed to have that on the record.

So anyway, unbeknownst to me while I’m chatting to the barista about how Sunday Reed had a lover along with a husband and whether we knew of any other girls (besides our cherub) called Sunday, some kind of freak situation was unfolding back at the ranch.

As I victoriously walked through the door with coffee and juice I was greeted to a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre – but with milk instead of blood. There’s James standing there in shock, the bath has been set up in the middle of the room and is in post bathing state, and freshly washed baby poppet is lying naked and somewhat confused (but nonetheless amused) on the floor by the heater.

“Ummmm, what happened here?”

“The milk…it just exploded…she was drinking…and the top came off…you mustn’t have put it on properly…and it just went…EVERYWHERE. We’re ok though.”

“Thank god you’re ok.”

I’m sure I’ve heard of heaps of cases of death by milk avalanche. We’re lucky to still have our little girl. Heaven knows if she had of just had one ml extra in that bottle I might not be telling the same story. It’s funny though that out of the hundred or so bottles I’ve given her the top has never just flown off like a possessed spinning top? Pretty sure James was leaving out some of the finer details; like how he had decided to adjust the bottle top…and maybe didn’t put it back on correctly?

The thing with James is, he doesn’t just make a little bit of a mess. He manages to spread his handiwork across the spread of an entire room. It was like dodging those old WW2 landmines trying to pass the towels and pieces of baby clothing that were littering the floor.

I then spent the next 10 minutes preparing a new bottle (for a now impatient, starving child), emptying the bath, finding a new set of clothes (for bub AND dad) and removing the fabric war scene from the floor.

What a refreshing little outing that was! Just to get away and not have to do baby stuff for a minute! Thanks heaps for helping James. That was awesome. Really feel rejuvenated. You’re the best.

But seriously - I love you. It was just really funny. 



Pic: http://asprinklingofmagic.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/spilt-milk.jpg

George Michael knew it.

Freedom, I won't let you down, I will not give you up...

FREEDOM. And I’m right there with him. 

Ironically, when I’m more bound to the house then I’ve ever been, with a tiny human relying on me to survive, I feel the most freedom I’ve felt in two years.

When we experienced our first miscarriage two years ago I began to make at first smaller, then bigger, changes to my lifestyle in the quest to get that bun cooking in the oven. Initially I was just reducing bits and bobs until I became more focused and conscious about what was going to work best in my body. I can’t even remember the last time I had an alcoholic drink. I’m being serious.

Once the baby bun was actually cooking I scrapped coffee, in fact any caffeinated beverage…and then the hardcore heartburn meant chocolate went off the list too. Don’t worry about health retreats people – just get pregnant with a baby who wants to grow lots of hair. That heartburn will pull you right into line. She has her Mohawk to prove it. Follow that up with a long enduring dose of the ‘rhoids and the diet becomes even more scrutinized.

So with all these consumption rules my lifestyle became quite strict. (That’s omitting the sausage roll binges) On reflection I’m not sure how much of the restriction was necessary, or was just me wanting to be able to control the uncontrollable. It’s funny how our little neuroses come to play whenever Mr Pressure points his finger at you.

Now that bub’s here and is completely detached from me as her life support system I’m aware of my leave pass to wreak havoc on my body. But boozy nights and eating marathons? I’m not sure how interested I am. The sushi and ice cream sundae that I thought would rock my world once bambilicious was here; didn’t. The thought of a nauseating hangover at 7am when there’s a smiling little face wanting playtime doesn’t get me excited either. I had well and truly enough nausea for the first 18 weeks to last me for quite some time.

But that’s not the point. If I WANTED to, I could. And I wouldn’t be doing anybody but myself any damage in the process.

It’s not just the food freedom that I’m relishing in; I’ve got the time freedom too. I’m one of those people who hates being late. If I’ve got a flight to catch I’m nervous until I’ve checked in, bought my bottle of water, gone to the toilet and am sitting patiently at the boarding gate. If I’m meeting friends for dinner, odds on that I’m the first one to get there. It’s just how I am. For me being late means I am implying to somebody that I’m more important than them, or that their time isn’t valuable. I avoid it at all costs.

Cue baby. No one has actually spoken to babies in-utero about the social niceties of life and therefore she has no issue with running to her own schedule. Truth be told I scored higher than ‘normal’ on the post-natal depression evaluation that the maternal health nurses do, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I answered ‘yes’ to the ‘anxiety for no good reason’ questions. In the first few weeks the thought of making a doctors appointment, or appointment of any kind, when I had no idea when she would be asleep (or awake) gave me heart palpitations. Knowing I needed to be strict with my pumping schedule didn’t help. If I fed baby face when we were out I had to make sure I made up for that feed in pumping when I got home…and if it ran into the next feed…then I was in pumping trouble. There’s only so much one cow can give.

I realized something though as I scrambled into the waiting room with a bewildered bambini in tow. They expect you to be late. Who? Pretty much everyone. Those mothers who have gone before me have paved the way for relaxed outings and flexible appointment times. Carrying a baby capsule is like waving an access all areas pass to a Michael Jackson concert (RIP) but instead of awesome seats and hang time with MJ you get doors opened and understanding nods from receptionists. In fact, they seem really proud of you that you made it there at all!

So whilst I’m not about to become one of those people that says they’ll meet you there at 12 and doesn’t get there ‘til 3, I feel much more relaxed about sending a text to say I’ll be a few minutes late. For someone who has been so time conscious it feels AMAZING. Simple pleasures, huh? Couple that with the fact that my primary career is making sure babycakes is having a good time. Life is good.

If you’re not careful you’ll catch me wandering in an hour late smashing a block of chocolate washed down with an espresso martini. Isn’t it interesting how the relative goal posts change? Three years ago you may have read that sentence and thought, “that’s how you arrived last week”, minus the hour late bit of course.

For now I’m really, truly happy with my chai latte, a couple of sneaky squares of chocolate if I feel like it and making it places on time, most of the time.

I tried to find some other lyrics from George's Freedom to finish this post. Nothing quite fit. Maybe I can go with this;

But today the way I play the game is not the same 

No way
Think I'm gonna get myself happy

Or just picture me as a supermodel in a bathtub. Is that creepy? 

Operation F%$k Off Pigeon

Having a little bublette means lots of stay at home time. Especially if she’s on a winning sleeping streak and needs the hang time with her cot.  With all those hours confined to the same four walls it’s easy to go a little crazy with the ol’ cabino fever if we don’t get onto things early. Luckily, I’ve found a solution.

In order to stave off the groundhog lunacies, us mums need to stay occupied. As our living rooms become their own microcosm of the world we need to think globally.

We need an action to keep our senses alert.

We need a cause to fight for.

Mine is Lawn Security.

Outside our lounge room window there’s a lovely little patch of grass. It used to be our veggie patch but didn’t get enough direct sunlight. So James decided to landscape it (i.e. make a patch of grass) for our little bambini.

Things have been going reasonably well as the majority of itty bitty grass seeds have been making their way into fledgling blades of grass. We do however have one looming threat – Mr Pigeon.

I don’t think he’s from this part of town, and I don’t trust him.

This guy thinks he can just waltz into the joint and take whatever he pleases, as if it’s a Sizzler buffet.  No sooner does James lay some extra seeds to make up for lost stock and Mr Pigeon flaps on down to Chinatown for some yum-seed. James even goes out late at night to lay the seed, in the hope that Mr Pigeon won’t know there’s been a new shipment of birdy smack. But he ALWAYS knows.

I don’t even know why I call him Mr Pigeon because that implies he is dignified, or has manners, and he clearly doesn’t.

Initially James was happy to take care of it with some very well thought out tactics and ideas (he did used to be in the army). He hung chains and ropes with Chux ‘don't cross here’ lines and we even set up a clotheshorse barrier – like the infantry. Funnily enough though, pigeons can walk right under frames of metal that are our equivalent of the Westgate Bridge. James’ most inspired contraption was the hanging cat. With jagged mirror eyes and his Styrofoam body hanging menacingly from the chain barriers to simulate a live puss, we thought we had it covered. It wasn't enough. We had no idea what we were dealing with. This is one wiley pigeon.

Now James is a busy man and can’t be abandoning his demands at work to ensure the safety of our grass to be. So I have launched Operation Fuck Off Pigeon. I’m like Tony Abbott with his boat people phobia – we must stop the birdy boat at all costs. Heaven forbid that he take one of those millions of grass seeds that belong to ME. Outside. In nature. Where birds live. I’m renting which says I’m close enough to being able to say that piece of grass is MINE. Not yours.

It’s a multi pronged approach and you have to be uber diligent. So far my most successful tactic seems to be adopting the large bird flapping manouvre through the window. He’s a pigeon, he doesn’t know what I am, but when he sees this intimidating figure rushing to the glass making extended flapping gestures with it’s limbs, he gets the picture. Only enough to fly off the grass and onto the fence. Defiant animal.

I often feel defeated when my distractions (i.e. having a baby) lead to another breech of security. The worst is when he strikes and I’m out of action, feeding bub. My instincts want to fling her off my lap to rush to the window. But I know I can't. I can do nothing but sit there and watch. It breaks my heart. Another teeny lawn grain won’t get it's chance to see daylight, to reach its ultimate potential and become a blade of grass.

The other day I found myself making up stories to James about how I actually feel sorry for Mr Pigeon because he obviously has a compulsive eating disorder and is really unstable. I soon realized this was all just a thinly veiled attempt by my psyche to manage the anxiety over another gobble attack.

Look, you can’t expect to win a war in one day. Although this morning as I braced myself to open the blinds and see his greedy little head bobbling away at the seeds below him, I was shocked. Mr Pigeon was nowhere to be seen. It’s now mid morning and still no sign. I feel elatedly triumphant. But there is a little part of me that hopes he’s ok. Maybe he’s just finally accepted things and gone to get himself some help?

Mr Pigeon or not, I’m just glad that I’m able to keep myself sane and focus on things that matter in our world. 

Mr Pigeon staring me down from his 'safe-house'

'R' Rated

R is for 'Rhoids - Hemorrhoids.

Before we recoil in disgust and embarrassment, here are two stats:

In a 2001 study 120,000 Australian women self-reported having hemorrhoids, with a significantly lower 89,000 men reporting the same thing. http://www.rightdiagnosis.com/h/hemorrhoids/stats.htm

Approximately 50% of the USA population will suffer from hemorrhoids at some point in their lives. If you're a pregnant woman you're more prone to getting them. So if we lived in the States either YOU or I would have them. Lucky for you, I've had them. http://hdtreatmentcenterofraleigh.com/uncategorized/hemorrhoids-by-the-numbers/ 

Side note: Please do not make the mistake I made in googling 'hemorrhoids images'. Nobody, I repeat, nobody needs to see that.

So whilst we might avoid every possible conversation on the topic, the reality is that if you've had, are having or thinking of having a baby, your odds are pretty good to be having a downstairs visitor come to stay.

I'm not gonna lie, having hemorrhoids has not been the most awesome experience of my life - shock, huh? It took me a while to catch on to what was happening as a little bit of discomfort then suddenly turned into real deal pain. You see, post birth there are so many crazy things going on with your body that even the most in tune person can't keep track of everything that's happening. A niggle here, a bit of pain there - it all begins to feel pretty normal when you're averaging about an hour and a half's sleep at any given time. A quick trip to the doctors and some unpleasant probing confirmed my suspicion - I had the 'rhoids. I could go into a long list of the things that I've done in the process to heal them, but it doesn't make for thrilling reading. Get in touch if there's something you want to know and I'll happily tip my bag of 'rhoid tricks onto the cyber table. What I will tell you is that water is your best friend. I mean, water was already like a close friend, but now, we're heaps closer. BFF.

I also copped another little buddy called a fissure - which conjures up in my mind tiny little people with tiny little fishing rods catching tiny little fish. And I guess it feels a bit like that. In any case its a tear, it can bleed and it really hurts. May I remind you - water is your BFF. Go out right now and buy one of those necklace sets that has the split heart that says 'best' on one piece and 'friends' on the other.

After becoming much more acquainted with the lower half of my body, I realised that I felt a little uncomfortable sharing with others what was going on. Why is that? I'll happily tell you that I just banged my funny bone on my elbow, or I've got a mouth ulcer - why is it any different telling you that I have a small tear in my anus? Ah! Even typing that still makes me cringe! (I still have a way to go obviously) Interestingly, I was sitting with some friends the other day (male and female) and pushed myself to bring up the topic. One of my male friends (who never shies away from the reality of a situation) exclaimed, "Yeah! Apparently like half the population have them. Talk about it.". And so I am.

I hate the thought of a new mum already struggling with the pressure and chaos of a new bub then being whacked with the 'rhoids and not feeling comfortable talking to anyone about it. If you've got them, get to a doctor, or better still a doctor and a naturopath so they can help you sort out your diet to heal the little critters as soon as possible. Hopefully your experience with the GP will be a little more heartening than mine. Her advice to me was, "Ok, so no sitting for long periods of time and no heavy lifting." - you do realise, lady, when I said that I had a 6 week old baby, that meant I HAVE A 6 WEEK OLD BABY. All I am doing is either sitting on my butt feeding her or carrying around all 3.5kg of her.  So helpful.

What has been helpful is having the courage to talk about it. Yet again, people come out of the woodwork with their stories and experiences. People - we have to get better at this talking business! I instantly felt so much better that Becky or Matt had dealt with the 'rhoids before (I made up those names in case anyone I know called Becky or Matt thinks I'm writing about them). They weren't freaks. I wasn't repulsed by them. They still seemed to have healthy, functioning sex lives. They'd not been outcast from society. This gave me hope that I too may be allowed to remain in mainstream society even though some of my digestive system was having a hard time keeping it together.

The reality is people -  we get the 'rhoids. Not all of us, but definitely someone you know. We're like an underground club, but without the password to get in.

Breast is best but...

I don't know how many times in the last three months I've heard (or read) this: 

"Breast is best." 

I get it, I totally do, I wanted to be the woman breastfeeding her baby like a hippie outside under a tree. Problem is my baby had other ideas. 

Having a mum who breastfed me until I weaned myself the day after my 1st birthday, I always assumed I'd be able to breastfeed my babies. It's the most natural thing isn't it? The way we were born to do it. In fact, how would anyone survive if we didn't do it? I understood that premature babies had little hope of breastfeeding because they hadn't yet developed the sucking reflex, but beyond that it seemed to me that putting bub on the boob would be the easiest thing in the world. 

Well, sadly, it's not. Not for some of us anyway. 

My gorgeous little girl struggled from day one. She was just over a week before her due date (thanks to the induction) and only a tiny tot at 2.6kg. She was exhausted before she even got to wrap her lips around my not so conducive nipples. It would be easy for me to spiral into more of the details around why our breastfeeding journey was so difficult, but I'm not sure if that would be for your benefit or mine. I expressed milk for her in a compromise to her baulking at my breasts. On her three month birthday (partly by coincidence of my milk drying up than symbolic timing - although I did shed a tear) she had her last bottle of breastmilk. She is now a fully fledged, formula feeding, bottle bub.

I am so grateful that our society has such strong and passionate bodies dedicated to educating and supporting women through breastfeeding their children. It is absolutely, without a doubt, the best thing your little munchkin can have - their own mum's milk. But what I've discovered along the way is that there isn't an association for 'Mum's Who Really Want To Breastfeed But Their Baby Struggles And They Keep Getting Mastitis And Their Nipples Aren't Easy For The Baby So They Scream Whenever They Are Put To The Breast Even After You've Seen A Lactation Consultant'. Funny that, huh? It might sound like an extreme, ridiculous idea for an association (which it is) - but my point is that there are actually so many women out there who suffer from this, or something similar, and there really doesn't feel like there's somewhere to turn. 

The feeling is all too familiar. I felt it with the miscarriages (www.treebambino.blogspot.com) - so many people have had them, yet no-one feels safe enough or empowered enough to talk about them. It's like you've failed if you can't carry a baby or your baby won't breastfeed. The more I spoke to the women with babies in my life, the more the stories came up about their difficulties; the battles with mastitis, the cracked, bleeding nipples - crying because their baby was hungry and wanted to feed. So I tried to figure out who it was that was making us feel so ashamed, so powerless to change things. And then I realised for the most part it's us. 

I was my biggest task master. The evil ways of the unrelenting perfectionist gene. Somewhere (probably in my childhood) I'd told myself that to be a good mum I had to breastfeed. And I say me specifically, because I've understood why other women have decided to bottle feed their babies. So many of my most wonderful friends, including my partner, were bottle fed. They are some of the most intelligent, creative, caring, healthy people I know. It didn't make much sense that I continued to berate myself over something that I was surely fighting a losing battle with.

You see, I think there's so much more to bub's health and happiness than the enzymes and proteins that flood into her tummy. If she's spending 99% of her time with me, I'm thinking that my health and happiness also plays a huge factor in her wellbeing. When do we ever want to spend our time hanging out with the sick, unhappy, crying person for fun? I want my daughter to have an energetic memory of me being present with her, of me being overwhelmed with nothing but love when I'm feeding her - not wincing with pain or rushing off to attach the breast pump. I'm sure there will be women out there who disagree and that's ok, but I'm willing to bet you that they either have never had a breastfeeding issue or are stuck in a martyr complex. Maybe. 

So once again I learn! Thank you beautiful baby of mine for showing me yet another possibility in life. I'm still a little sad that I couldn't breastfeed and I did allow myself a day or two of tears to grieve it. On the whole though, I feel so much happier that my body revolted enough to help me make the decision to let it go. I can now see more and more the independent nature of my little cherub shining through. I'm sure that feeding isn't the only thing along the way that she's going to decide she wants to do her way.