"They Wont Remember A Thing"

It's one of those ever-so-useful platitudes that people like to trot out whenever your baby is undergoing some painful procedure like immunisations or being made to dress up like a caribou. Like most platitudes it is supposed to be helpful, alleviate stress and/or guilt, reassure parents that they have done the right thing (well, maybe not the caribou suit) and make the person who said it feel better. Like most plattitudes, it does none of these things except the last, and it isn't true.

Here's the thing: they may not consciously remember their first needle or that time you spilled red wine on them (okay the time I spilled the red wine) or the fact that mum and dad were not getting along too well or the time you left them to Cry It Out, but you cant tell me that it doesnt affect (affect? effect? I never bloody know) them and leave some sort of mark upon their personalities.

Babies' brains are blank slates when they are born, and their earliest experiences shape the physical structure of the brain itself. The process of interacting with its people and its environment stimulates various parts of the brain, impacting not only on the number of brain cells and the number of connections between them but also the way in which these connections are wired. Over-stimulate the part of the brain that deals with stress responses and you will develop a brain that reacts as if a stress response is required even when it isnt.

When I understood this (for I didnt even realise this was the case until a few weeks ago) it had a profound affect on me. For two reasons. Firstly, the realisation that every.single.thing I do shapes Spudly's personality. Everything. Crying every evening because he was starving and we couldnt figure that out: some brain cells were stimulated and others died because of it. Holding him close for the better part of every day and responding immediately to his cries that mean "my butt's all poopy" "I'm gassy" and "I'm unsettled and feel like a grizzle" stimulate the warm and fuzzy pathways. On the whole, I think the warm and fuzzy pathways are winning out, but what a totally awesome (in the true sense of the word) responsibility. Obviously, I understood before that how we treat Spudly affects how he behaves in the world and how he feels about himself and others, but I didn't consider that how we treat him physically changes his brain so that he wont be able to respond differently to how WE hard-wire him. Fuck that's huge.

Secondly, it made me realise some things about myself. Since Spudly was born I've often ruminated upon what life was like in the House of the Mini Panda. My mother has told tales of being home after her 6 week hospital stay (following pre-eclampsia, 7 day labour, emergency c-section, baby born not breathing and not being able to see her for 3 days, and not having any milk to feed her) and being expected by the Husband and the Three Teenage Sons to pick up where she left off, i.e. her rightful position as their personal slave. She cried into the bucket of nappies on a regular basis from what I gather, and had to deal with not only the expectations of four less-than-enlightened males but also a baby who wouldnt stop screaming or go to sleep without the addition of Baby Valium (I shit you not). Knowing my father and brothers as I do, its not hard for me to picture the atmosphere in that house. The tension, the arguments, the screaming (not just from me) and more than likely the physical abuse. Is it any wonder that that baby grew up into a child and then adult with severe anxiety issues? Is it any wonder that she has suffered depression most of her life? Is it any wonder that a sudden loud voice, whether in anger or in fun, sends chills down her spine and does weird squidgy things to her guts?

For so long I put these things down to the things in my life that I could remember. The physical abuse my mother and I suffered from my father, the abuse I suffered from my mother, the violent relationship I ended up in with Fuckhead. The depression and anxiety disorder I put down to me being somehow weak or not made of strong enough moral fibre. I'm not denying the profound effect my remembered experiences have had on my personality, but what a shock it is to realise that the things I cant remember have had the biggest impact of all.

I'm not even sure how I feel about this. Relieved. Disturbed. Angry. Sad. Mostly relieved, I think. It goes a long way towards explaining why now that I'm in a loving, safe and supportive environment I feel like I'm out of my comfort zone and have to continually remind myself that this is a Good Thing. My comfort zone is that which was hard-wired into me in infancy. And its not a place I want to or should stay.


Speaking of the things they wont remember, here's some evidence for later court trials:

Mamma and Spudly do that 'net thing

Spudly says "Lemme see what you're doin..."

In case you cant quite read his t-shirt...

Got Poop?

Coz we sure do.

After three days of nothing in the nappy department 'cept for a lot of moistness, yesterday we were greeted with a rock-hard nugget which seemed to have acted as a cork for the TORRENT of plasticine horridness that followed for the rest of the day. Monkey Boy came back from the changing table, handed the Spud to me and sat in the corner, rocking. He may need therapy.

Lesson learned: eating lots and lots of stinky cheese may get things moving, but you'll wish it hadn't.

In other news just in:

Spudly tells us exactly what he thinks of his eskimo suit. Note configuration of left hand. (I swear on all things panda-y that this was not a set-up)



Spud has also embraced the concepts of Reaching For Things, Enjoying The Pram and Throwing Up On Every Item Of Clothing.

Next stop: Mensa.

Painting With Light

Back here I mentioned that one of the things I wanted to do with my Hour-A-Day was to mess around with my photography. I may not have mentioned before, but I'm Rather Good with the old camera lucida. Since I moved to my current abode 6 years ago I havent had a darkroom ,so my photography has slipped by the wayside. Its time to rectify this situation.

I recently read Portrait In Sepia by Isabel Allende. In it, the heroine of the story discovers her love of photography. Her description of what photography means to her rang so true with me that it prompted me to get my shit together and return to the medium that allows me to express what excites or moves me in this world.


If you observe an ordinary object or body very closely, it is transformed into something sacred. The camera can reveal secrets the naked eye or mind cannot capture; everything disappears except for the thing that is the focus of the picture. The photograph is an exercise in observation, and the result is always a stroke of luck... The camera is a simple apparatus, even the most inept person can use it; the challenge lies in creating with it that combination of truth and beauty called art. That quest is above all spiritual. I seek truth and beauty in the transparency of an autumn leaf, in the perfect form of a seashell on the beach, in the curve of a woman's back, in the texture of an ancient tree trunk, but in more elusive forms of reality. Sometimes, working with an image in my darkroom, the soul of a person appears, the emotion of an event or vital essence of some object; at that moment, gratitude explodes in my heart and I cry. I cant help it. Such revelations are the goal of my work.

With the purchase of a rather cool digital camera, and now a decent computer with decent software, I dont need to closet myself away in a darkened room for hours at night to be able to produce my art. I can sit in my loungeroom, with the wood fire going and Spudly at the boob, and exercise my creativity while being sociable at the same time.

Spudly's Rockin' Rocker

Here he is. Introducing the fastest feet in the Antipodes:





It takes a minute or so to load. Be patient, people.

OMG

OMG OMG OMG.

Guess who got a ticket.

*wipes drool from chin*

Holy Guacamole, Batman!

Weigh-in day. Time to see if the formula is working.

530g (18.7oz) in one week! TEN TIMES his previous weight gain. He's gone from below average to above average weight.

The Domperidone, or, as I like to think of it Dom Perignon, is working a treat to increase my supply. It pours out of me during feeding, and today I managed a whole feed and then expressed another 50ml (20z) which just never happened before.

What does he weigh now, you ask? 4.8kg at 8 weeks 4 days.

Bits n Pieces

Homework

I made myself an appointment with the Mental Health Midwife last week, certain that I was in fact the only woman on the planet experiencing life with a newborn. Yesterday was time to go and spill my guts on what life with a 4kg spud is like, and why I feel like a failure.

In addition to telling me to stop being so damn hard on myself and start treating myself the same way I would a friend who was going through all this, my midwife has given me some homework. I have to make a list of all the things I'd like to do with an hour to myself per day. A whole HOUR! Just for me. With no baby and no husband to get in my face. Woohoo!

So what do I want to do with that hour?

• Shower. A long one. Long enough to shave my legs, coz the Amazon called and they want their forest back.
• Lie in my hammock in the sunbeams (if we ever get any again) and read a frivolous book or crap mag.
• Lie in hammock and drink wine or somesuch.
• Go for a walk somewhere picturesque.
• Mess around with my collection of shells and beads and make some perdy things.
• Mess around with my photography.
• Sleep.
• Sort out my wardrobe into "can wear now" "can wear later" and "get over it, you'll never be a size 10 again" piles.
• Then realise I dont have a thing to wear and go op-shopping for divine new yummy-mummy attire.
  
• Ring people. On the phone. And talk to them. Actual people. That I actually like.
• Potter in the garden. Though at the moment this would entail a flame-thrower to find said garden and then a slasher to make it accessible enough to potter within.
• Make yummy baked goods like a 50s Domestic Goddess.

What other things might I accomplish in one hour of baby-free time? Everything else I can think of is kinda longer term stuff like, I dunno, renovating the bathroom...


Bosoms Akimbo

The bosomry issues continue. I gave up on the Fenugreek because it gave me nosebleeds. I tried the anti-nausea drug Maxolon, which has the side-effect of increasing milk supply. I gave up on that when it made me so tired I could barely sit up. In addition, it gave me...umm...digestive issues. After a week I think it started to work, but I literally didnt have the energy to feed, which kinda defeats the purpose. Yesterday I was given a script for Domperidone, another drug like Maxolon. I wonder what the side effects of this one will be?

So far, I've been giving Spudly 60ml (2oz-ish for those of you living in the time of Charlemagne) of formula after each breastfeed, and I've been trying to space the feeding to three-hourly. Its working more or less. What is DEFINATELY working is the formula. We have a different baby. He's chilled. Totally chilled. Falls asleep after feeds. Might wake up again but doesnt scream. Instead, he smiles and coos and gurgles and is divine. And he still sleeps 6-8 hours at night.

However much I wish I could provide him with everything he needs myself, you cant argue with a contented baby. Well you can, but then you'll just upset him and he'll vomit on you.


Ch-ch-changes

Spudly has started to discover his hands. He clasps them together in front of his face and stares intently at them, moving them around and quite clearly trying to figure out what they're supposed to do. He's also started mimicing our facial expressions, and talking to us. He actually said "coo" the other day!

He's a freaking genius!

Purr-fect

There's a New Cat On The Block, in need of tummy rubs and ear scritches. Welcome, Mini Miao!

The "F-Word" Strikes Again

Well today is yet another day on which I have to come to terms with the fact that my body is completely fucked and wont do what its supposed to with regards to babies.

Spudly only put on 50g over the last week, despite the fact that I had done everything the same as the previous two weeks when he gained 100g per week. The Child Health Nurse said that since I was being worn down from the constant feeding and he wasnt gaining enough we had no choice but to introduce complimentary formula feeds inbetween 3 hourly breastfeeds. The theory is that if I can get him to go 3 hours between breastfeeds then he'll take more from me, stimulate me better than he does while snacking and I'll get enough rest to increase the fat content of my milk too.

I know this isnt the end of the world and formula-fed babies do just as well blah blah blah, but it would be nice if SOMETHING would go the way its "supposed to". So far, everything that I've been totally against I've ended up having to accept: drugs during labour, intervention during delivery and now the formula that I've been so vocally against for so many reasons. Truly, the thought of giving Spudly anything but breast milk makes me feel sick, and like I've failed him.

An Exceptional Child

• Since birth he has slept through the night.
• Since birth he has been able to hold his head up.
• At two weeks, he smiled for the first time, indicating poo was on its way.
• At four weeks he smiled properly, indicating mum was a bit of a goofball.
• At five weeks he rolled over, but has chosen not to repeat this performance since.
• At 6 weeks he almost laughed.
• At 7 weeks he started making gurgly noises.
• At 7 weeks he indicated his preference for Jamiroquai to de-stress.

I'm hoping at 8 weeks he decides that a daytime sleep is a Great Idea Mum.

Thought Of The Day

I've had lots of thoughts running through my head recently. Usually they're doing just that though; running through. They dont like to hang around much at the moment. Perhaps the decor needs changing? Some of these thoughts I've wanted to turn into blog posts but it seems that whenever I sit down to write nothing comes out. My brain is a big fat zero.

I'm sure from an evolutionary perspective this is a good thing. Nature can't have us women running around and paying attention to solving world hunger or trying to understand what's going on with oil pricing or exactly what that is the cat just threw up. We have to pay attention to the small squirming thing that wants to attach itself to our breasts AGAIN, and we have to not get distracted from doing so. My intellectual side tells me I should be doing something more "productive" with my day, presumably writing that treatise on The Fundamental Interconnectedness of All Things. But unlike at university, when suddenly needing to paint the kitchen seemed a valid distraction from swatting for exams*, the non-intellectual pursuit of sitting and feeding or rocking and bouncing or pacing back and forth while feeding and rocking IS the main event. It IS the "more productive" thing I should be doing.

I always felt like I needed to be doing something really important and being a great success. Its really hard to get my head around the fact that the most important thing I can be doing is being a Stay At Home Mum.






*I actually did this. Ist year Classics exam. Painted the kitchen blue.

So I'm Hormonal. Sue Me.

Lunch yesterday was really lovely. Monkey Boy's sister Vegan Girl and her partner went OTT with the food, which was divine. Monkey-Mamma went OTT with the provision of alcohol, some of which unfortunately ended up on Felix's head courtesy of bad mothering on my part. Monkey Boy's other sister, Hippy Chick, went OTT with the high-pitched squeals of delight at "Gidget Face".

Now, I'm not one to be all materialistic and pout about "not getting stuff". Birthdays, Chrisbo, Valentine's Day; they all pass me by and I could care less. But sometimes...sometimes there are occasions that deserve to be marked and acknowledged in some small but meaningful way.

I know he's only 5 weeks old, so getting to the shops is a little difficult, but I do feel that after all I've done for him*, Felix could have got his representative** to cobble together a little something that celebrated the fact that this was my first Mothers' Day and that it might actually mean something to me.

Sitting up late on my own to watch the special Mothers Day screening of Love Actually with a MD card on my mantelpiece sent to me by one of my dear "internet friends" didnt do much to cement my feelings of being appreciated.

That is all I shall say on the matter.



* I hereby swear I will never use this phrase in parenting ever again.
**Not pointing fingers, but someone hairy who likes bananas.

A Few Piccies to Celebrate Mothers' Day

After two days of constant feeding, I'm willing to admit that perhaps Spud is in a growth spurt. Last night I actually ran out of milk. The dreaded "F" word* was used. Dismissed, but used nonetheless. He wouldnt stop screaming and nothing I did made any difference. Monkey Boy comes in to the bedroom and puts Spud over his shoulder and he stops screaming. Like Magic. Monkey Magic. I'm trying to not take it personally.



Today we are having lunch with the in-laws. All of them. Sisters, partners, parents and grandparents. This will be the first time the entire Monkey Boy Clan has been together in several years. After the rift that occured prior to our wedding, I'm so pleased that a little bundle of cuteness has managed to bring everyone together. I'm sure that Monkey-Mamma will be getting what she wants most for her Mothers' Day.





Most certainly I've got what I wanted most:


*formula.

I'm Just Wondering...

If somebody said, upon looking at a photo of you, that you "look almost beautiful" would you be offended?

They Grow Up So Fast

Yesterday Spudly managed two remarkable things:

1. He is now over his birthweight. 4050 grams to be precise. The nurse reckons whatever we're doing we should continue with as its working a treat. Oh, except for the devouring of an entire block of chocolate on my own. As we discovered this morning, this leads to explosive and copious amounts of poo. Everywhere.

2. He rolled over by himself. He can't quite work out how to get back once he's on his tummy, but I'm amazed that he can get himself there in the first place. He just lies there, all scrinched up, rocking back and forth like he's trying to work out this crawling thing. Or maybe he's thinking "calm blue ocean...calm blue ocean".

Actually, come to think of it, he managed more than two remarkable things yesterday. He also had a bath without screaming. In fact, he seemed to really enjoy it. He also slept for three hours in the middle of the day. In his bed. On his own. Three hours. Sigh...

How d'you like his battle helmet hat? His great-grandma knitted it for him, along with a lovely matching 1950's style "pram set" that needs one of those enormous 19th century prams to go with it. Totally impractical but I love it for its kitsch value.

The Prophet Google

What does it mean that for the comments from my last post, the sponsored links in my gmail account say "Women Dont Like You"?

One Month

Has it really been a month since this little person was pulled unceremoniously from my body? The ticker says a month, so I guess that's right. To me it feels like one very long day.

What has happened in that time?

• We've got the hang of breastfeeding, with random bouts of blocked milk ducts and sore nipples.
• I've figured out that crying means hunger and a particular frequency of yelping means tummy pain.
• I've also realised that the smiles dont mean "you're heaps funny, mum", but "I've just done a big stinky poo that you have to clean up. Suckers." Which, surprisingly, I dont mind doing at all.
• The Baby Blues lasted all of two days.
• When he cries there is no possible way of ignoring it and I swear sometimes it will rip my heart out.
  
• Someone can be so cute you want to eat them.
• A bunch of other stuff that I cant remember because my brain has taken a very long holiday.
• Some other things that I cant remember because he's just started screaming again and I cant think about anything other than getting him to stop.

Bloody hell, at this rate I'm going to have the world's most boring blog.

One Day I Will Stop Writing These Posts

Its Sunday. Its lunchtime. You will notice that I am posting on my blog and NOT sitting down to a birthday lunch with my fucked up family.

I am so tired that even if I wanted to go, it would have been a bad idea.

On Thursday, Monkey Boy and I did the expected thing and popped in to see my parents on the way home from our grocery shopping expedition and introduce Spudly to them. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. Spudly, the little darling, decided to start screaming as soon as we pulled up outside, so obviously we couldnt stay long. Gotta love that boy.

Really, I had absolutely nothing to say. Well, nothing that I havent already said before in response to my mother's inane drivelling about dad's memory being "a bit of a problem" and the fact that she cancelled his last doctors appointment and how its so hard for her to get around with the walking frame and she keeps hurting herself trying to do the vacuuming, blah blah blah. Monkey Boy and I just looked at each other.

Now, given the previous post, you might have some idea of how thrilled I was when my mother said to Spudly upon his screaming "isnt she feeding you?"

You couldnt get me out of there quick enough.

Neither Monkey Boy nor I said anythign about the visit when we left. Some time after we got home he said "are you impressed I havent made any comments about your retarded mother?" Yes. Yes I was. I was also impressed with myself that I had no need to vent upon leaving. We both knew what the other was thinking.

Something along the lines of "let's never do that again."

Hunger Pangs

So the Child Health Nurse came out today for her first visit, and now we know why Spudly has been crying so much.

He's hungry.

In two weeks he's only gained 120g. It should be double that. He hasnt even got back to his birthweight yet.

First my uterus is unremarkable, then my ovaries are polycystic, my placenta is too low, then my cervix doesnt want to open, and now my boobs arent producing the goods.

Is there ANY part of my body that would like to function properly?

Happy Anniversary To Me

Today is the 1st anniversary of my foray into the world of blogging, and I feel it behooves me to mark it in some way.

Possibly by finding a way in which to use the word "behooves".

I've been reading through my first posts here, and am struck by a couple of things:

1. I am disgusted by the fact that I was using terminology such as "BD", "AF" and "CM" rather than just writing normal everyday words like "shagging", "period" and "cervical mucous". UGH. Its just too cringe-worthy. Of course, I had not yet come across the term "crimson bitch". I had to read Mollywogger for that one. At least I didnt sprinkle goddamn babydust anywhere.

2. I was sooooo hyper-stressed. I have a tendency to forget the exact emotional state I was in for a given experience and often minimise it to myself, most likely as a protective measure. Reading back what was going through my head and just the tone of those posts when I realised that we were officially infertile, it is obvious to me just how much on a knife edge I was all the time. No bloody wonder I ended up on Prozac.

From this exercise in revisiting the past I can really appreciate how far I've come, how much my snark-factor has increased, how much I've learned about myself and the enormity of the experience of trying so desperately to start our family. In twelve months I have morphed into another person, completely unrecognisable from the scared, angry, frustrated and very lonely Panda that reached out to the world in an attempt to find someone to tell her that she wasnt alone in all this crap. The intensity of emotional pain I felt then is astonishing. That I survived the experience with my sanity and my marriage intact is also astonishing.

The most astonishing thing of all is that the pain has been replaced by an equally intense feeling of love and peace. I doubt I could say that I'd go through it all again, but if the only way to get to this point in my life where I feel at ease with myself, happy with who I am and have finally found what it is I'm supposed to do with my life, then every minute of the last year was worth it.