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.

the storks

It was really important for me to speak about some of the people who guided me and cared for me from pre pregnancy to post birth. These people ensured that my body held up, my mind stayed clear and our little bub was as healthy as could be. It was most definitely a team effort. 

After my second miscarriage and not a lot of insight or suggestions from the medical world I embarked on a two pronged approach to get prepped for pregnancy. 

My body has always lapped up the benefits of acupuncture and Wendy came recommended to me from a friend. The first time I saw her I knew the fit was right - she told me that her approach was not going to be to rush me into getting pregnant again. It frustrated the impatient Aries in me, I knew that was a good thing. Wendy was listening to what my body was already telling me (that I didn't want to hear) - it wasn't ready yet. So we began to build my body back up, to restock the supplies I guess you could say. Chinese massage, acupuncture and moxa herbs was her toolkit for me. My body gratefully absorbed the treatment and my mind was relieved to have someone else taking care of things for a while. Because that's the thing, you feel so responsible for your own ability to get pregnant when in fact there's often very little you can control on your own. 

Lou's approach was focused, well researched and confident. She was the most clinical naturopath I'd come across and I found a real comfort in that. She embraced the fact I was working with an acupuncturist and pulled out all the stops to compliment it with her bag of tricks. She understood my APS and knew what it would take to prime my body for conception and then support it throughout pregnancy. Her approach was so thorough; her expertise puts most GPs to shame. 

I have not the slightest doubt in my mind that it's largely thanks to these two talented women that we now have a beautiful baby, so it seemed perfect to me that Wendy was one of the first people who knew I was pregnant. It was a Friday afternoon after having a positive ovulation test two days before. As I sat and chatted with her as we did before all my treatments I told her the hunch I had. "I know they say its too early to be able to tell if you're pregnant, but it feels different this month. I'm pretty sure that I am." The great thing about Wendy is that she trusted my instincts as well. She began a pregnancy treatment that day instead of a pregnancy prep treatment. Our little one was supported from the get go. 

Post birth Lou has been vital in me combating some not so nice health issues (mastitis and some other even nastier things), when the GPs could do nothing more than whack me with a script of antibiotics or tell me I would just have to 'wait it out'. I remembered very quickly why naturopaths are my preferred method of healthcare. 

So to these two 'storks' I say thanks for helping bring us our baby. And thanks for reminding me that it's just as important that I look after myself too so I can be the best mother to our little munchkin. 

For more info on Wendy or Lou: 

Wendy Robertson (NB: Wendy's practice is now in Thornbury, not Abbotsford)

Ljupka (Lou) Peev

Waiting with a loving heart and flexible mind

At 35 weeks in things are getting close to the 'beginning line'. I'm excited, nervous, impatient and happy all at once. 

For me it was a couple of weeks ago that I started really thinking about the birth and what it would be like for me. I am aware that I am considered 'high risk' and that being diagnosed with APS meant it was likely that the birth might not be a straight forward process. So I left it a while before asking my obstetrician if that would be the case. When I finally plucked up the courage he answered me in his calm, nonchalant way - No, I would not be going into labour naturally; Yes, there would be certain considerations that would need to be made as a result of my body's over eager need to clot itself up. 

So there it was. Things suddenly felt a lot more real. He'd obviously been thinking about it a lot more than I had, evidently. 

In my case it means that I'll have to be induced, that they'll take me off my injections for the duration of the labour and then whack me back on them as soon as the tiny little one has made their entrance into the world. There's also the possibility of a c-section if my body struggles. But that's just my circumstances -  there's plenty of other reasons why birth doesn't turn out to be an intervention free experience for a lot of women. 

It took a weekend of confused tears and blurting out my previously unexplored beliefs to James about what giving birth should be like to allow me process it all.  I was afraid of a c-section, the possibility of going under and not being awake when the baby arrived; and I thought that inducing might in some way hurry along a little baby who hadn't decided it was time to move out yet. Cue more tears and helplessness. 

And then I stopped. I stopped creating stories and I remembered how we got here - we were at this place because I was having a baby, a baby that we've wanted for such a long time. Suddenly the what and how didn't matter anymore. All I was focused on was this baby making it's way into the world and me being there healthy and well to be it's mum. 

When we know the time is coming I'm going to give baby the heads up so it can pack it's bags and we can work as a team and I've reconnected with giving this little soul Reiki.  I'm packing my bags too (just in case). From here on in I am surrendering to whatever the experience will be.

With a mind open to experience and a heart full of love, we wait. 


(To read more about our journey to this point go here)