You Knew This Would Happen, Right?

I had to visit my parents on Friday. So you know where this post is going.

First, lets get the bitching out of the way.

You may remember that my brother visited back in May for my father's 90th birthday. Since I didnt see him, he left a present for Spudly with the folks.

A slight detour to give the backstory: when I were a wee thing, I had a china Bunnykins bowl. I started eating solids from this bowl. I remember eating cereal out of it before I started school. With nary a thought that I may like to have it for MY kids, my mother gave this bowl to my brother when he had his first child. I have never got over this. Call me bitter if you like. You'd be right. The bowl had sentimental value to me, and none to him. Not to mention the fact that it is now worth a fortune. [She also gave his son my STAMP COLLECTION without asking me. MINE. I spent my whole childhood collecting those stamps. Gave.them.away. Yes. Bitter.]

Back to the other day: So what, therefore, could be the most ironic present my brother could give me? A Melamine Bunnykins set. MELAMINE people. Not MY BOWL. Some cheap-ass replica of my bowl. Harumph!


Now to the olds...

Mother had brother go get money from the atm for her back in May. 2 weeks ago, after stretching the money as long as possible on the food purchasing, she ran out. And ran out of food. No.food. Oh, well, except for 3 tiny tins of peas, half a cup of sugar, a dash of milk, a teaspoon of jam and a small wadge of cheese. What did she do? She had COFFEE WITH LOTS OF SUGAR IN IT when she felt hungry. Fuck knows what my father ate; probably nothing going by how much weight he has lost.

Mother has still not seen a doctor about her fall, despite this now being over 12 months ago. Still uses the walking frame, still cant get into her own bed, still in pain. More importantly, still cant wear her support stockings for her severe varicose veins and thrombosis, so her legs and feet are now massively swollen to the point where her skin is cracking. My fear is that she will end up with a clot in her heart or brain and that'll be that.

Monkey Boy asked if I said anything to her about this, but what's the point? Really? Nothing will happen except more banshee screaming, and who needs that?

If I think about it too long I will get very angry at the system that allows this to happen. My hands are tied, and the doctors will not get involved unless either my mother or father asks for help, despite the fact that they are both manifestly mentally incompetant to do so.

OH! AND! The local gp they saw to get a referral to the Geriatician? The one who never saw my mother as a patient? Continues to write scripts for her blood pressure medication and faxes them to the chemist despite NEVER having taken my mother's blood pressure.

How is this "doing no harm"?

Reality Bites

Truth be told, I have never looked in the mirror and really seen my body. I, like so many other women, look and see what I think it looks like. It’s not true that I never had a weight problem. I never had an overweight problem. I had have a “body image problem”, an underweight problem, a…okay I have an eating disorder.

I never binge and then throw up food, nor do I think that every morsel of food that goes into my mouth is going to make me fat. I’ve only recently had it described to me as a form of OCD. My thing, that I didn’t even realize I did until last year in therapy, is that in times of stress when everything in my life seems to be going out of control, I stop eating. The only thing I can maintain any control over is what is going in to my body, so I stop putting anything into it. How fucked up is that?

For a number of months before I met Monkey Boy, I was so proud of myself for getting through each day on a glass of fruit juice and a toasted muffin with jam and cream. That was it. Oh, and the cigarettes that I chain smoked in order to conquer my appetite. I was 5’8” (173cm) and weighed 8 ¾ stone (58kg). My hip bones stuck out, my ribs were clearly visible. I fit into size 8 clothing. SIZE 8. (For you Time of Charlemagne types, this is the smallest adult dress size). I looked in the mirror and was not horrified by the skeleton before me; I saw large thighs that could use a few inches off them and a butt that was no longer pert.

I did gain weight once I was in a safe relationship. I went back to my normal size 12 and you could no longer count my ribs from across the room, but the disorder was still there. Much to my horror it remained even after I realized it existed. Apparently, knowledge of the existence of a problem doesn’t just make it go away. What’s THAT about? I was so sure that since I knew what the issue was and what the triggers for my hunger-strike were, I would just be able to recognize when I was doing it and stop.

Hmph. Seems it doesn’t work that way. Why not? is what I’d like to know. [Sidebar: yes, I have now accepted my status as a total control freak since I was angry I couldn’t control the eating disorder that manifests when I don’t have control. Help.me.]

Let’s face it; having a new baby is probably the situation in which one is going to feel the least in control, but not even breastfeeding and needing to increase my caloric intake made me able to stop. I couldn’t even make myself eat properly for the Spud. I really scratch my head and wonder why I can’t choose to exert control over this disorder with as much willpower as I clearly have to control my food intake.

When I look in the mirror at 3 months post-partum I REALLY don’t recognize the body I see. Not only have I retained 6 kilos of pregnancy weight (that’d be the éclairs) but the belly is all saggy baggy and definitely NOT about to be shown off in skimpy little midriff tops like it was when I was 30 weeks pregnant. Nor are my thighs ever going to see the light of day again. Actually, I’d prefer it if they never even saw the dark of day again: it’s just too horrendo. I think I’ll stay fully clothed at all times. I’m at the high end of the proper weight range for my height. It just seems like all that weight has now deposited itself between my navel and knees. I dislike the way my body looks now more than I’ve ever disliked it before, and I worry that not even upping the dose of Prozac [excellent OCD meds] will stop the hunger-strike returning.

Consequently, there was a moment of serendipity today when I came across a blog called Shape Of A Mother, where women can post pictures of their pregnant and post-pregnancy bellies and their stories of how their bodies changed after childbirth. If “mommy blogs” are all about telling the truth about motherhood, about “keeping it real”, then this is the ultimate in reality checks. Saggy bits, stretch marks from hell, its all there. It was a relief, a real relief to see my body in the photos posted by other women and knowing that they all look in the mirror and don’t recognize themselves either. So it’s not just me. We all look like this. This is what pregnancy does. This is what childbirth does. This is what breastfeeding does. This is the price you pay for becoming a fully-realized mammal.

I’m guessing that the price you pay for being a mother is relinquishing control.

I’m also guessing Spudly is going to teach me more than I’m going to teach him.

I beg to observe, that, of all the boys in the world, I believe this is the best boy.

Paraphrasing Dickens, of course, but it's true. We have the best boy.

I wasn't really aware of how developmentally accelerated Spudly is until last night, when we visited his new friend who is 4 weeks old. New Friend is smaller than the Spud was at birth, but weight-wise not significantly so. But even now, at one month old, he looks like Spud did at 4 days. Its in the eyes, in the head control and in his interactions.

We had to double-check this by going through all our photos this morning. Spud stopped looking like a newborn and started looking like a switched-on little person at one week. The difference just blows me away.

I'm guessing that somewhere in the chaos of the last 14 weeks we've stimulated the right pathways in his brain, the ones that tell him the world is interesting and that people are great and he is safe and secure. He's the only baby I've ever met that loves...LOVES...everyone.

And look...look how much the formula agrees with him:


And just because I'm feeling like an exceptionally proud mamma today, some gratuitous cute Spudly shots.

Here's One I'll Probably Regret Later

Monkey Boy has warned me against opening up this particular can of worms, and just to give him an opportunity to say "I told you so" and be right, I'm going to ignore his advice. Love you honey.

I recently pimped myself to joined up with Blogs By Women, a directory of (obviously) women bloggers. I had a look at their own blog and found a link to BlogSheroes: The Feminist Bloggers Network. With nothing better to do than to waste my download quota for the day, I had a look. And a thought occurred to me: isnt the term "feminist blogger" somewhat tautological? How can a woman be a blogger and not be a feminist? Isnt the very nature of being a) female and b) having a voice courtesy of blogging and writing about our lives in an honest way a feminist act in itself?

Monkey Boy disagrees with the notion that a woman can not be a feminist. I cant fathom a woman who does not believe in equal pay for equal work, the creation of a level playing field, the right to vote, the right to say "no", the right to control her fertility, the right to be treated with respect. To me, being female automatically implies being a feminist. To Monkey Boy, "feminist" is as ugly a word as its male counterpart, "chauvinist", implying seperatist notions, male-bashing, and unshaved armpits. I agree that this view of feminism is indeed ugly (especially the armpits) and I have never felt comfortable with a group of women who wish to sit around bagging men and spelling "women" with a "y" and two "m"s. But I'm not convinced that this is feminism, or if it is, its a version that is as old as the ashes of the bras that were once burned. I'm also not comfortable with the women who say "I'm not a feminist, but..." Maybe I'm just not comfortable with women. And if that's the case, can I still be a feminist?

So what is it that defines a feminist? Is it blaming men for everything whilst striving so hard to be just like them? Is it believing all people deserve to be treated equally in some circumstances or to have barriers removed so they can participate equally in others? Is it about respecting each other's differences? If you're a married stay-at-home mother who took her husband's surname and makes killer scones are you a traitor to the cause?

I'm really interested to find out what it is that YOU think defines a feminist.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

While refraining from using the "c" word (congratulations) I will now indulge myself in proliferous use of the PREGNANT word and point you in the direction of a PREGNANT Manuela, who has just embraced her PREGANTNESS after the latest startling and very very PREGNANT BETA.

Here's a chick who deserves all the congratulations in the world, but I will restrain myself as she has requested.

I will, however, say I am so freakin' happy for her and Mr. P that I just want to burst.

Oozing Hip-ness

Spudly gets lots of attention when we do our regular grocery shopping, because he's carried around in the Hug-a-Bub sling and because he's so damn cute. So its no big thing to have someone staring at him when we're in the lift back to the carpark. Of course she's staring. This is the cutest baby the world has ever seen. Who could resist him?

Imagine my distress when I put the Spud into the car and discover that aforementioned woman was not gawping at my son's beauty, but at the volume of thick white PUKE he had expectorated all over my hip "I really do have a place in the world and can get dressed before twelve" outfit.

Baby puke: its the new black.

Fuck You Too, Blogger

You dumb-ass piece of shit, you swallowed half my template and spat it out your dumb-ass somewhere near the Orion Nebula.

Most of my links have gone, so please dont think I've just dissed you. I have to find you all again.

Jesustapdancingchrist.

***update***

Well after FOUR FREAKIN HOURS I hope all the links are a) there and b) work. Let me know if you find a problem.

Cheers, and thanks for nothin, Blogger. Fix your goddamn bugs!

Shameless Self-Promotion

Since this describes me to a T (what IS that saying about? Do I look "T"shaped?) I considered it behooved me to join their Blogroll. Over there in the sidebar you'll find a big list of chicks who have a meaningful relationship with their computer.

Broaden your horizons and click on some of 'em.

In Which We Battle The Mucous...Oh The Mucous

You know you love your child when you have mucous secreting itself from (almost) every orifice, your ears are plugged up with something the consistency of road tar and your throat currently contains a rock covered in sandpaper and you still dont mind being up at 4am rocking him (hopefully) back to sleep. So this is parenthood.

As it turned out, he didnt go back to sleep. The 4am screamfest turned into a 5.30am breakfast snack and we're all still awake and arent we jolly about that.

Who are these morons saps people who think that having a child will help their (usually failing) marriage? What on earth would possess someone to think that having 2 adults sick enough to want to die and a baby with a temperature and some weird-ass cough thing going on who hasnt pooed in 3 days but continues to produce the MOTHER of all stinky farts and will NOT settle down and go to sleep is a sure-fire way of bringing you closer to your significant other? Because when the shrieking starts and drills through your head and your partner has to yell to be heard over the noise...then...then running away with Jack Sparrow looks like a Really Good Idea.

The Second Post For The Day or I'm Not Really A Sellout If I Believe In The Thing I'm Promoting. Am I?

Normally I totally ignore all the stuff that comes to my inbox from the plethora of blog directories I pimped myself to signed up with. I dont even know why I bothered opening this one particular email this morning. The lure of 20 free credits certainly isnt usually enough to generate enough interest to double click yet again. Maybe it was because Mercury is in retrograde (thanks for pointing this out Kevin), maybe it was because I've been sleep deprived for several days now and my decision making capabilities are not at their sharpest. Maybe it was because I needed to read what was contained therein for the goodness of my soul.

I choose Mercury In Retrograde, thanks Bob.

Whatever. I come clean now and say that those nice people over at BlogExplosion lured me to this website with the promise of 20 free credits to my account if I would please visit aforementioned nice website and write a blog entry about it. Now, I'm not one of those hussies who sell their souls to the devil (unlike those A-list Hollywood types who do shameless product endorsement but only in Japan or Outer Mongolia). I have Principles. My opinion cannot be bought and sold. Despite this I took their golden carrot and ventured forth into the murky world of Cash-For-Comment.

Fortunately, I liked what I saw. It appeals not only to the armchair activist in me but also to the philosopher, the wanna-be-but-is-too-cynical-politician and possibly also the inner child that still asks "but whyyyyyy?"

We all have questions about the world, about our society and culture, that we'd like answers to. More often than not these questions seem so big and daunting that we cant think of them as anything but rhetorical. Can there ever be an answer to "why do we claim that everyone is equal and judge the next person we meet?" or Does freedom of thought really exist?

Dropping Knowledge is an international collective whose mission is to collect such questions from people around the world and present them at their Table of Free Voices event in Berlin on September 9.

From their website:

"dropping knowledge will bring together 112 inspiring individuals to drop their knowledge at 100 of these questions; the answers will be filmed, generating some 600 hours of footage. The "ask yourself" campaign, Table of Free Voices and other dk activities exemplify the practice of asking and answering questions. Together, these activities pave the way for participation in the Living Library. "

The Living Library is an initiative that, from what I can gather, will act as a cross between a database and a giant chat-room, bringing together differing viewpoints on issues of global importance and acting as a kind of brain-storming session to develop solutions to our most pressing issues.

As a philosophy graduate, I believe that one should never stop asking questions even if you dont get answers to them. It is the asking itself that is important, that changes mindsets, that opens up possibilities. Do I think that this Table of Free Voices will come up with any concrete answers to the 100 questions that will be posed? No, I dont. Even if they did, who would actually commit themselves to do what was necessary? After all, we know the solutions to global warming but we cant even get our own government to commit to Kyoto. Indeed, one of the questions that has been submitted is Are asking questions going to motivate someone to take action? (by Michael Pokocky , 51, Ste-Adele/Quebec, Canada)

I think that the most important role Dropping Knowledge will play is in the mere posing of the questions, perhaps encouraging people to consider issues that wouldn't normally even occur to them. Issues such as this:

The Baby Drop Box at Altonaer Children’s Hostpital, Hamburg, Germany, is an alternative to infanticide.

Maybe the key to changing the world is knowing which questions to ask.

What A Difference A Year Makes

One year ago today two people who loved each other very much did something most couples take for granted: they had sex for fun. I know. I KNOW!! They didnt think about propping hips, about the sperm-killing qualities of massage lotion or about having to "clean the pipes" beforehand. They didnt care about the time of the month. Can you imagine??? It wasnt so much that they had given up on ever being able to conceive; they were just.so.tired of thinking about these things all.the.time.

One year ago today, possibly the one remaining non-ugly sperm somehow managed to make its way past the massage lotion and the thickened cervical mucous (without falling out) all the way up to the fallopian tube to meet one of the eggs that had been released that month without going polycystic. They made polite small talk: possibly even asked do you come here often? Then, much like the people they belonged to, they decided straight away that they should get together and make a baby.

One year ago today the thing the medicos said couldnt happen, happened.

One year.

And we've gone from this:

to this:

And it blows me away every single day.

"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.

Lumi's Back!

For those of you who followed the trials and tribulations of Lumi at Illumination, Maybe?, you'll be pleased to know that she has a new home on the web at Urban Drool, where you'll find frequent mentions of "donkeys balls"and the truth about what its like to be a WMWAFN.*

Go give the girl some lovin'.


Working Mother With A Fucking Newborn.

Oh Brother, Where Art Thy Brains?

Dear Brother,

What part of "I'm not keen on doing lunch for several hours when I've just had a baby" did you not fully understand when you booked a table for 8 for next Sunday and assumed that we'd all be there?

I cant actually bring myself to respond politely to his email, so I just wont respond. After yesterday's post describing my day can you really see us sitting peacefully in the restaurant of a dodgy bogan pub for Sunday lunch? Nope. Me neither.

Its bad enough that I feel I HAVE to go and see my parents this week to introduce Spud to them. Hopefully he's still young enough that he'll have no memory of the occasion. Its a fairly safe bet, since he has trouble remembering where he left his hand...

Day In The Life

It occurred to me today that I havent written anything of substance about day-to-day life with the Spud. Possibly because I'm too busy living it to write about it, possibly because I dont want to scare the bejeebus out of people who are about to join the ranks of the permanently sleep-deprived. However, if I dont write any of this stuff down I'm likely to forget what it was like, and start to say stupid stuff like "it wasnt that bad honey, lets have another one..."

So here's a brief run-down of a typical day in Pandaland:

4am: Spud starts snuffling. I wake up and hope he'll put himself back to sleep.

4.30: Spud starts screaming. Obviously not going back to sleep then. Feed Spud, with incredibly painful and overflowing boobs.

5.00am: finish feed. Wake Monkey Boy to change his nappy. Spud's, not Monkey Boy's.

5.15: feed again.

5.30. Hope the sleeping nugget stays asleep as I put him back in his hammock. 50/50 chance he'll ed up in our bed, cradled in my arms.

8.00 Spud stirs again. Feed, change nappy. Get up. Cup of tea awaits me in the loungeroom. Feed again.

8.30: drink cup of tea. If lucky, eat muesli.

9.00: pump breastmilk. Hop online.

9.30 - 1.00pm feed, change feed, strap screaming baby in Hugabub. Settle. If lucky get to brush teeth. If really lucky get to have shower, get dressed, put SHOES on and take tablets. If not at all lucky, feed, change, feed, try to settle, feed, scream, feed, change, feed, hand over to Monkey Boy and consider running away from home.

1.00-3.00: usually asleep if he's in the hugabub. Lie down on couch with riveting daytime teevee or read. Ocasionally I've been known to nod off. Try to organise something lunchy. Put on a load of washing.

3.00-5.00:feed, change, feed, settle, feed...etc. Watch Bold & The Beautiful with Spud. Discuss Ridge & Brooke's future and wonder when Stephanie will just die already.

5.00-6.00 feed, change, feed.

6.00: think about dinner. Screaming starts again.

6-9pm: screaming. Spud also screaming. Somewhere in here we get to eat, but not at the same time. Spud demands food constantly, but wont attach properly. Screams when not on the boob. Walk around house with Spud. Bounce Spud. Change Spud. Feed Spud. Rock Spud. Cry. Get angry. Think about running away from home again.

9pm: go to bed, exhausted. Feed Spud in bedroom. Rock him for about 20 minutes after feeding. Put him in hammock. Creep into bed. Pray he doesnt wake. If lucky, he stays asleep til 4am. If unlucky, he wakes, wants more food, screams, and usually gets a bottle of expressed breast milk after which he sleeps like...a baby.

I read this back and forgive myself for getting all twitchy and emotional and crazed by the end of the day because its damn repetitive and damn hard work. At the same time I realise that I am so bloody lucky to have Monkey Boy here 24/7 to help carry the load. He can and does take Spudly when I cant deal with the screaming anymore, when I need to have a shower or when I just need to lie down and rest for a little while. He does get up at 4.30 every morning to change the pooey nappy and changes the majority of them during the day too. He makes me cups of tea and yummy food and does most of the housework. He's keeping Spudly entertained right now so I can do something as seemingly trivial as posting on my blog, but which we both realise keeps me sane so it will keep everyone else sane too.

So there's the bare bones of my life right now. Later on I'll fill in the blanks. Luckily, they're the bits with all the good stuff in them.

Like this:

You What?

Its been far too long between posts about my mother. I'm suffering high-drama withdrawal symptoms.

As are you all, I'm sure.

The day after Spud was born, in what was the first and last conversation I had with her since his birth, the following exchange took place:

Mother: I still havent been told you know.
Me: Yes you have.
Mother: No I havent.
Me: Yes you have. N told you last night.
Mother: YOU havent told me. When N told me he'd arrived the night before I was absolutely livid.
Me: I've been in labour for 3 days and I'm exhausted. Do you really think I need this right now?
Mother (all high-and-mighty): Now listen Panda...
Me: Fuck off, mum. Just fuck off.

Really, I need someone to be pissed off with me because I didn't personally ring them the second my child was born when I've just been through some kind of emotional and physical hell and since then have been worried that said child is okay and not about to die because he got a lungfull of poo. How inconsiderate of me not to drop everything and pay attention to how my sociopath mother is feeling neglected by not being the centre of my universe.

She rang us the day we got home from the hospital, ostensibly to apologise, but Monkey Boy assures me that the words "I'm sorry I'm such a self-centred cow" did not pass her lips. Nor did the words "congratulations", "how are you?", or "how's Spudly?"

What-ev-uh.

Spud-O-Vision

One day, I'm sure Spudly will come across my blog files on some antiquated technology called a cd-rom and have a conniption about the fact that these photos have been published for the entire world to see.

Maybe it makes me a bad mother that, despite the undoubted damage such knowledge will do to his psyche, I choose to publish them anyway.

I'd rather regard it as being unbearably besotted with the cutest baby in the world and dying to share him with everyone.

I also want to remind myself that even though he can be the devil incarnate most evenings...

he is in fact a perfect angel...

when he's asleep.

Practical Parenting 101

As much as I crapped on about having a Crunchy Granola Birth Plan and had Grand Ideas about being the ultimate Earth Mother, reality, it seems, has other ideas.

Intellectually I knew that having a brand new baby would be all feeding, changing nappies, feeding, no sleep, crying (baby and me) sore nipples, feeding...ad nauseum. I knew this. I didnt have unrealistic expectations about how the baby would be perfect and just coo and go to sleep when I wanted him to. It was going to be hard work.

What I didnt know, what I couldn't prepare for, was how it would make me feel. There is no way you can possibly know how the endless screaming at the end of the day is going to make you feel about your baby, about yourself, about your abilities to cope and about whether this parenthood thing was a Good Idea. I couldnt prepare myself for how the endless feeding would make me feel like a machine rather than a person, and I couldnt prepare for the fact that such horrors as "For fucks sake kid, just bloody go to sleep" would actually come out of my mouth.

I also couldnt prepare for the fact that these baby things have tricksy and wiley ways. One minute I'd gladly leave him out for kerbside recycling and the next he gives me That Look and I'd kill anyone who said a word against him, and I'm locking the car doors in case anyone tries to steal him.

Its been the steepest learning curve of my life, without any time off to review what I've learned, subject matter that seems to change every day, and with no feedback from the teacher apart from wet nappies, screaming and heartbreakingly cute smiles.

I guess the biggest signifier of how I'm doing is that he's eating, pooing, weeing, farting, growing and interacting, and I feel more love for him than I ever thought possible.

By Popular Request

Oh I know, you want to see more piccies of the Spudly One. I'm not very organised right now, but here's a couple.




Here he is checking out Daddy. Yup, that's right son, Daddy's funny lookin'.

And here he is all sacked out and asleep (huzzah!) in the Hug-a-Bub wrap. Absolutely THE most essential Baby Acoutrement we have. I pop him in and even if he's screaming he settles and sleeps within 5 minutes. Check them out here.

You May Have Noticed...

For those of you who still live in the Dark Ages and use Internet Explorer to gad about (for shaaame), you will please note that I have finally managed to find the problem with my sidebar links.

Stupid html. Who knew that you had to close tags?

I'll be playing around with the blog format for a little while I think. I've been blogging for almost a year and that plus the addition of a small, somewhat fermenting potato to the household indicates this to be a good time for a spring clean.

If anyone has any suggestions for how the new improved Pandamonium should look, please feel free to comment.

And I will get around to writing baby-related stuff. Honest.

He's still cute, by the way.

Ten Great Things About Babies

1. They smell so clean.

2. They have cute little pudgy hands.

3. They smile when they pass wind.

4. Their skin is the softest thing you will ever feel in your life.

5. They can be so relaxed that you have to keep checking they're breathing.

6. You see yourself in another human being.

7. They are infinitely cuddle-able.

8. They make fantastic snuffle-wuffle snonking noises.

9. They look at you like they Know Things.

10. No-one else will ever need you as much as they do.

The Harvesting of a Spud Part Two

Much much later…

I write this one week after his birth, so the details are probably going to be sketchy at best.

Three or four hours after the first Pethidine shot I had another, about 7am I think, but I kept needing the gas for every contraction. Around 9am I was examined again, and my cervix was dilated to 2cm, and it was decided that it was necessary to break my waters and start the Syntocinon drip to get things moving. My body just wasn’t co-ordinating the contractions at all. All pain, and no gain. I had the intensity, frequency and length of proper full-blown labour contractions, but they just weren’t achieving anything.

I was exhausted, Spudly was getting tired, and we needed to speed things up. The drug I though I would never agree to was the only thing left on offer. I knew with the Syntocinon that the contractions would just get worse, so I agreed to an epidural. I have to say I was scared. The last time I had a needle go into my back it damaged my sciatic nerve. This was going in next to my spinal cord, and without CT guidance. I hunched over on the side of the bed, gripping Monkey Boy’s hand and experienced some pain as the needle and tube went in, but after half an hour or so I could feel nothing from my belly button down. It was a horrible sensation: I couldn’t move the lower half of my body yet I could feel that it was numb. I remember touching something that felt like a lump of meat and then realised it was me. This was the point of the labour at which I lost control of what was happening.

As soon as the epidural had taken effect, my waters were broken, a catheter inserted and the Syntocinon drip started. Hardly any amniotic fluid came out, which was a concern. A scalp clip was attached to Spudly’s head to monitor his heart rate more accurately and constantly. I ended up with 6 tubes/cables hanging off me: the scalp clip, the CTG to measure contractions, the catheter, the IV fluids, the Syntocinon drip and the epidural line. I was wired up, confined to bed and no longer in control of my own body. I hated it.

I guess it was a couple of hours after the Syntocinon drip started that Spudly’s heart rate started dropping. I had to lie on my side half-propped or it would drop alarmingly to around 60-80bpm. Then I’d have to move around, sit up, turn over until it came back up to 140bpm again. This was the pattern for the rest of the labour. Unfortunately for me this meant that I had to lie in the worst possible position for my back, which went into major spasm right above the epidural block. There was nothing that could be done for the pain. It was like having my spinal injury all over again.

The rest of the day was a blur of pain and trying to turn over without control over the lower half of my body, coupled with relief at not feeling the contractions that the CTG showed were incredibly intense and coming every 2 minutes. They were much more intense than what I had already experienced, so I was very grateful for the epidural from that perspective. By late afternoon or early evening I decided to try sitting up with my legs dangling over the side of the bed and lying sideways on a pile of pillows to alleviate my back pain. It worked, mostly. Spudly’s heart rate didn’t drop as frequently and the pain was somewhat lessened. My feet and ankles started swelling though, and the skin was stretched to the point of being shiny. It was a very bizarre sensation.

Around dinner time I was examined again and I was fully dilated and fully effaced. I was told I could start pushing whenever I had the urge. We decided to not use the epidural infusion anymore so that I could regain some sensation and co-ordinate my pushing. I wanted to get my legs back so I could kneel and push him out on my own. The CTG showed the contractions slowing down, and I asked the midwife “so, this is transition then?” She thought it was hilarious that I could ask so matter-of-factly.

I started feeling some pressure, but I still couldn’t feel any contractions. Jessie (the midwife) helped me to coordinate the pushing process with the feelings of pressure and the contractions on the CTG, but I couldn’t feel the muscles I needed to use to push effectively. I got it right a few times, but mostly I was pushing aimlessly. I did manage to get his head a little further down though, so I felt like I was achieving something, no matter how small. I kept hoping the epidural would wear off quicker so I could get off my side and onto my knees.

I don’t know what time it was, probably around 9pm I’m guessing, when all of a sudden the room was full of people, most of whom I’d never seen before. One of the doctors I’d seen earlier was trying to get me to push effectively but I just couldn’t do it. She was very brusque and said that it was hopeless and that I wasn’t able to do it on my own and we would have to do a forceps delivery.

I freaked. My first reaction was that I was doing my best but what do you bloody well expect of someone when they cant feel a damn thing with the part of their body they need the most? I was getting very angry and totally overwhelmed. They wanted me to lie on my back and this was just going to cause me enormous amounts of pain because of the spasms. Monkey Boy and Jessie tried to explain this to the doctor and no-one seemed to be getting it that more epidural wouldn’t help the situation. The anaesthetist was brought down immediately and didn’t answer my questions, and wanted to talk to me when I had an intense bearing down urge. I ended up agreeing to a top up on the epidural because I didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. I kept getting more and more angry and scared. Monkey Boy made lots of noise about getting the bystanders out of the room, but we still ended up with half a dozen people there.

I remember having the overwhelming urge to get up and leave. If only my legs worked! I was furious that this was happening. I totally lost the plot when the stirrups came out of the cupboard. Here I was, with the extensive Earth Mother Active Labour birth plan, confined to bed, strapped to monitors and IV lines, with my legs in stirrups, flat on my back with my baby about to be pulled from me under bright lights while NINE strangers watched. I cried and cried and cried. All of a sudden our peaceful delivery suite, which we had made a home away from home, was turned into an operating theatre.

I didn’t feel the forceps go in, but suddenly there was an incredible pulling sensation and I was told to push. I pushed with everything I had, and there was much in the way of encouragement to keep pushing from Monkey Boy and the midwives. I think I had to push really hard about three times, then I was told to pant. I remember thinking I was going to run out of air if I had to pant for much longer. Then without any warning there was a baby on my stomach. A huge, wet, red-and-yellow-covered goopy baby. I was completely startled by this little person that had appeared out of nowhere. I held him, crying, for what seemed like only a few seconds before he was taken to the resuscitation table. He made only one squawk, and I couldn’t see him because the Paediatrician was blocking my view. All I could think about was the fact that my baby was on the other side of the room, surrounded by people and not making any noise. That was the longest 5 minutes of my life. Someone told me he had done a big poo on the way out and inhaled some meconium so he needed suctioning and would have to be taken to the NICU for observation.

I felt the placenta slide out of my body, and I asked for them to keep it for us to take home. The doctor showed it to us and I couldn’t believe how big it was. There was hardly any amniotic fluid at all, and that explained why Spudly’s heart rate was dipping so much. I had a second degree tear which needed stitching, and the doctor was trying to tell me how to look after the area but all I could think about was my friend David whose daughter had died at two days old after inhaling meconium. I desperately wanted my baby in my arms and why was this taking so long and why wasn’t he making any noise?

It was about 15 or 20 minutes before he was given back to me and we got to look at our beautiful boy properly. He looked exactly like the 3D ultrasound photo we had in the room with us. He was still goopy, he had a full head of dark brown hair, his hands and feet were huge and grey, and his entire body was covered with dry flaky skin. He was very much a well-cooked Spud. I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life. He was unbelievably soft, and smelled of the sea.

We were able to hold him for a while before he was taken to the NICU. The paediatrician told us he was doing really well but they needed to observe his respiration for a couple of hours. Before he was taken I managed to breastfeed him for a short while, and he seemed to know what he was supposed to do right away. Monkey Boy went with him to the NICU and for 5 minutes I guess I was alone in the delivery room. It was a surreal moment. After the chaos of the delivery I was on my own, with no baby and no husband. It felt so wrong. We should have all been together but I wasn’t allowed to move until the epidural had worn off.

By midnight I had enough feeling in my legs to be able to be moved onto the ward. About half an hour later Spudly was brought in to us wrapped up nice and snug and pronounced perfectly healthy. His Apgar scores were 8 at 1 minute and 9 at 5 minutes and he was breathing well, though a little snuffly. Finally, after 18 months of trying to conceive, 9 months of worrying whether this pregnancy would last and then 3 days of labour, little Spudly was with us. Perfect. Soft. Healthy. Our son. How he got here no longer mattered.

We were a family at last, and we were blessed.

The Harvesting of a Spud Part One

Okay, here it is: How The Spud Was Harvested in two exciting installments, because not even the most die-hard Spudly fan could be bothered reading through 6 pages of this stuff in one sitting.

The first part is taken straight from my journal entries that I made in the hospital. The second part is from memory, so there's bound to be bits I've missed/forgotten/blocked out.

Enjoy.


Tuesday April 4

Spudly is now 8 days late with no signs of movement at the station, so its time for an induction. I don’t know what I feel. A million different things all rolled into one, no doubt, that together make my brain go “lalalala”.

Last night was the last time we went to bed without a baby next to us. This morning is the last time we have breakfast in bed as non-parents. I don’t even know how I feel about that since what comes next is such a huge unknown. Today we step into the void. I hope its nice to us.

8pm
Arrived at the hospital at 3pm. Had CTG at 4ish. Cervidil (a tampon-like tape impregnated with prostaglandins) went in at 4.30. Spudly’s heart rate started going up, and up, and up, to a baseline of 180bpm. The staff start panicking, and out comes the Cervidil. 2 hours of more CTG monitoring and his heart rate is back to normal at 145bpm. The doctor tells me that if we had used gels instead of Cervidil he would have had to do a c-section immediately. Fuck.

So now he’s settled down, and I’ll be examined again in a couple of hours to see if the membranes can be ruptured tonight or in the morning. We’re not sure what happens after that, especially if they cant do an ARM. Possibly another try at Cervidil. If I cant use prostaglandins, we’re looking at a c-section.

I wont think about that now. The is the Scarlett O’Hara school of labouring. I’ll think about that tomorrow.


Wednesday 5 April

12.30am.

Had another internal at 11pm last night. My cervix has softened and shortened but I’m still only 1cm dilated. CTG trace was fine, so at 11.50pm they put the Cervidil back in. And OH.MY.GOD did that hurt. I think I nearly broke Monkey Boy’s hand. The trace afterwards was perfect, so they are sure that he’s not reacting to the prostaglandins, but that it was a combination of factors that pushed his heart rate up previously.

The plan now: get some sleep and in the morning have my waters broken.




4.10am

Woke up at 2.45am. Started having intense period pain that didn’t seem to ease up at all for 45mins. Called midwife. Woke up Monkey Boy. Contractions are officially 3 minutes apart.

The midwife suggested I try a shower to ease the pain. Glorious wonderful shower! As soon as the water hit my back the pain eased. I love that shower. I think I stayed in there for about an hour.

8.30am

Managed to get 2 1/2 hours sleep. CTG at 7am showed Spudly still happy, and I’m having contractions about 5 minutes apart, lasting 30seconds.

Internal exam showed his head has moved down a little., but he is now posterior presentation, with his back against mine. He’s decided to turn over NOW after all this time being anterior? Difficult child. The cervix has shortened a little and dilated a little. But for having had 9 hours of Cervidil it hasn’t done anywhere near what it should. The only good thing is that at least I am contracting, and Spudly is happy. The doctor attempted ARM but couldn’t get the crochet hook up there. She tried to stretch the cervix a little which is about as much fun as…something that isn’t fun at all. Words fail me. It fucking hurt.

Will be re-examined at 12pm. Am going for a walk soon.


Thursday April 6

12.20am

Went for that walk yesterday, which got the contractions going quite well. We wandered down to the kiosk at the main entrance to the hospital, which is a marathon effort when you are having contractions every 3 minutes along the way. Several people asked if I was alright when I had to stop suddenly and hang off Monkey Boy.

Unfortunately, sometime close to midday the Cervidil fell out, Yes, fell out. So another painful internal and another Cervidil went in at 1pm. That makes three. Unheard of, apparently.

Intense contractions started pretty much straight away. And I mean INTENSE. Much longer and stronger than before. They really are indescribable. At some point it just got too much - they were coming fast and furious. Hot packs and showers weren’t helping, and the bath that I was so sure I would use and love was horrible. I felt disconnected and confined, and it did nothing to ease the pain. So much for my Earth Mother idea of a water birth!

I caved and had the gas. The second contraction I had while using it, I made the mistake of holding my breath for too long and ended up in fits of uncontrollable giggles right through the next contraction. I think I started the gas around 7.30pm. Time started getting a bit hazy around this stage.

Contractions were now up to a minute long and about 2 minutes apart. They felt like a giant hand was squeezing me around my abdomen. Because Spud is posterior, my back is bearing the brunt of the pain. For each contraction, Monkey Boy pushes on my lower back to counteract the pressure. I lost it several times, crying and saying I couldn’t do it. Monkey Boy kept bringing me back to focus on my breathing, and on the 3d photo of Spudly we have with us.

By 10.30pm I was exhausted. I cant stand or sit, so the only position I can tolerate is on all fours, either on the ball or beanbag. Standing makes the contractions unbearable. I’ve taken the seat cushion off the couch and kneel on that with my body draped over the ball, rocking back and forth with each contraction while I inhale for all its worth on the gas. Its like breathing in pain. Another internal was done, this time by the midwife which is far less painful that the others and the cervix has done nothing. 1cm dilated. Soft. Posterior. Not ARM-able.

And so we decide to go for the Pethidine. The gas wasn’t cutting it and certainly wouldn’t keep up throughout the night. And I need to rest.

So Pethidine - my new friend - has relaxed me and taken the edge off the pain. Though I must say that the injection hurt just as much as the contractions. Now I shall try to rest if not sleep, and we shall see where we go to from here. But Spudly will definitely be born today, one way or another. The doctors will not let me go another night. I have to face the prospect of having a c-section again since the prostaglandin is just not working, and when told this I completely lose the plot. My brain cannot handle to prospect of being operated on whilst awake. Monkey Boy holds me while I cry from fear.

He Sleeps

While the little screaming devil child angel is asleep, I can take this opportunity to both pump breast milk and post some piccies.

Shit. Or not. Obviously he knew I just called him a devil child. Devil children would sense these things. So Spud comes surfing with Panda.

I have to say its been a very difficult week since Spud was born. Its hard to believe he's a week old. It seems more like one v.e.r.y l.o.n.g day.

I will post my birth story. I started keeping notes in the hospital of what was happening, but after the second pethadine shot I lost the will or ability or both to write anymore. Suffice to say, there was little in the way of granola, and it will be a long story.

To tide you over til then, have a squiz at the cutest baby in history.



Our first family photo, about half an hour after delivery.

4 hours old.

36 hours old.

Look at that cute little bundle. He loves curling up just like a hedgehog.

All snugged up and ready to come home, in the knitted cardigan his father wore home from hospital and the blanket his great-grandmother knitted especially for him.

and then there were three...

Panda and the Monkey are pleased to announce after 67 hours of labour (are those calculations correct? Anyways it was a darned long time! - Ed.) the safe arrival of the spudley one!! hooray!

Born at 9:43pm on April 6th weighing 3.94 kg and 52 cm's long.

"Baby perfect, mother shattered, father delirious."

Well done PANDA!! wow! You can procreate! what else can you do??!

Love you both.
xJ

the minx is back...

hi folks. i'm really the worst person for this job... not only am i in a part of the world where there are a load of storms lately which means i have no power and no computer...my computer is a piece of poo... and i'm not really sure which bits i'm supposed to be posting and which bits i'm not... so heres the latest update from 11:56pm last night...

from the phone of the wench, sparklepanda, herself...

"Having contractions 3 mins apart, very painful, since 1pm, threw away birth plan at 4pm, no cervical dilation, on gas and pethadine, me likee pethadine. spud too damn comfy, doesn't want to leave" there you have it folks. more soon. xJ

Baby Steps

Spudly remains enamoured with his current abode, so an eviction notice will be served at 3pm today. I should be having gels shoved up my clacker around 4pm and having a baby sometime after that.

I dont know how I'm feeling about any of this. I think its a million different and conflicting things that when put together just make my brain go "lalalalala not listening". That will do.

I kinda feel like I did when I went on the flying trapeze at the Fringe Festival a few years ago. I really wanted to do it to get over my terror of heights. (Well, that and I was Under The Influence of some substance or another...) Climbing up the ladder I kept talking myself into doing it but by the time I got to the top I took one look at the dude and said "I have no idea why I'm doing this." I can recall that exact feeling even now. I really felt like I was going to die. It was sheer unadulterated terror. Adam says he expects me to start screaming "I wanna get off, I wanna get off" at any moment. Probably during transition.

We had a relaxing day yesterday - went out for lunch (the Last Supper), I had a nice glass of wine, we raided the library for several weeks worth of light reading, came home and did some baking for the freezer. Banana, carrot and apple muffins. Yummy. Then we ate half the baked goods before they were cool enough to freeze. Quality Control. You understand.

I've never given a great deal of thought to the actual having a baby part of pregancy. By which I mean the "now he's here what do we do with him" bit. I've thought no end about the "Will I Ever Get Pregnant" part, and about the "Will This Pregnancy Last" part and the "Will The Baby Be Okay" part. I've even thought about the "How Is He Getting Out, Exactly?" part, though with almost no consideration of medical intervention since That Wasnt Going To Happen To Me.

Now I find myself faced with the medical intervention I didnt ever think about, and the prospect of an actual baby who will ge given to me to bring home and be responsible for. This is quite a surprise to me, since I am the Queen of Considering Every Possibility. I love contingency plans. I never wake up without one. I dont know how this managed to get past me. Possibly because I never thought that we would actually get to this point, possibly because to think about it before now would have been putting too much faith in things going right. And we know what happens when you listen to Hope. Sooner or later she turns into Princess Gina and then your life is in the toilet again.

So I've had a few freakout moments over the last 24 hours, regarding the birth and - more importantly - parenthood. Mostly because this is something that I cant be totally prepared for: there arent enough contingency plans in the world to make me feel comfortable with what is about to happen. And I dont like that. What I have to make myself do though, and this is the hardest part, is to stop looking at the big picture and focus on the here and now. This minute. Like Spudly will be doing every day, I have to learn to take baby steps.

As I leap into the void, I know I take with me the support of so many amazing women. To those of you who have followed me on this journey, offered a metaphorical shoulder to cry on, held the metaphorical punching bag, and become actual friends, Monkey Boy and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Stay tuned. The Minx will keep you updated by taking over my blog again, and she may even be able to post a piccie or two.

Ummmmm... *UPDATED*

I woke up at 4.04am feeling like absolute shite, on the verge of tears because - yet again - I'm still pregnant. I lay there for just under an hour, when my bladder definately started to get the better of me. Stupid bladder.

Stumbled off to the loo.

Peed an extraordinary amount of fluid.

Wiped.

No doubt about it. That's a mucous plug. A goopy, gel-like, blood-tinged mucous plug.

I thought I should share.

Monkey Boy is still fast asleep. I cant see much point in waking him.

May this herald good news when we trundle in to the hospital today for the final CTG.


*****************
UPDATE:

The CTG was fine. As always, he's pronounced a happy healthy baby who likes to move alot.

Unfortunately it did not show me having any contractions. Not a one. Depsite the fact that it sure as hell felt to me like I was having them. Consequently, if these are not real contractions, I'm not interested in continuing further with this deal.

It was agreed that "having a show" was a good sign, but that ultimately it didnt mean jack shit about when I would actually start labour. Could be today, could be in two weeks. So we were sent home.

And told to come back in on Tuesday for the induction.

Can I go get drunk now?