Love is a Battlefield

Pat Benatar was right. Love really is a battlefield. It's a war zone. It's the night of the living dead.

Dragon entered my life one month ago. She came promptly on her due date in a birth so glorious and straightforward that it seemed too good to be true. Yes it was painful. Yes it was hard. But as I twisted my sweaty head towards the open hospital window and watched dawn break as I pushed my baby into our world, I was conscious of how wonderful all of it was. Post birth, I was on a high.  I vaguely clocked that the little blinking creature on my chest was my responsibility. I was too busy cracking jokes with the midwife and doula. My husband was slumped in an ashen, grey heap somewhere in the corner.

They're tiny but they pack a punch

 I lost that high somewhere in the post natal ward where they deposited me and Dragon afterwards and left us alone. I realised that the buck stopped with me. I was her lifeline. It was utterly terrifying. Like many new, first time parents I didn't sleep a wink that night (or any thereafter), watching her breathe. I got on my Blackberry and unleashed my terror upon all my friends who handled this first time mum with care and understanding. That night was also when the tears set in. 

The tears continued for many days and nights as the spectre of breastfeeding reared its ugly head. All I can say about that right now is that if I had the guts to chop my breasts off, I would. Breastfeeding rendered me into a state of despair so deep I feared for my mental health. In the space of three weeks, I'd experienced thrush, mastitis, having Dragon's tongue tie snipped, severely damaged nipples and pain so bad that I would go through labour again rather than endure it.

Subsequently I have learnt a lot about breastfeeding the hard way. Not only about the physiology of it but the politics, the socio-cultural context and the pros and cons of how it is promoted to new mums in the UK.  More of that another time.

They say that nothing can prepare you for it and that's true. I could not have predicted the brutality of new parenthood, which in my case was severely exacerbated by breastfeeding problems.  But I'm lucky for Dragon was born a healthy, happy baby who I hope to keep that way for as long as I can.

For nothing can prepare you for the intensity of the love you have for your baby either. The love which keeps you afloat amongst the gruelling drudgery of looking after a newborn on no sleep.

Love is a battlefield but the fight is wholly, with yourself.

Rigby & Peller

Many years ago I heard on the grapevine that Rigby & Peller was the place du jour to go in London if you wanted to be fitted properly for a bra. To get an idea of where they stand in the world of corsetry, they hold a Royal Warrant of Appointment which in plain language means that they are the official supplier to the Royal Family. Their fittings are free and you can either book an appointment in advance or simply walk in off the street and wait for a fitter to become available.

I have never been a fan of bras. I’ve always found them uncomfortable and restrictive but maybe that’s because I’ve never worn the correct size. For many women it’s not something that comes as a given when we choose our first off–the-rack bra at K-mart. As the years go by, many of us (you know who you are) just guess at our bra size as our bodies change with age.


Well enough was enough. If I had to wear the stupid things, it was time to find out what size I should wear. Anyone that’s handled the Queens’ bazookas is good enough for mine so last week I went along to the Conduit Street branch of Rigby & Peller for a walk-in fitting. Luckily there was no wait. I was ushered quickly into the changing rooms and told to strip off. After a quick glance at the goods, my fitter briefly popped out of the cubicle before returning with two bras for me to try on.

Don’t you have to measure me with a tape first?, I asked

She laughed in a way suggesting I was an imbecile.

We don’t need to use tapes, she poohed-poohed. We can tell.

And sure enough she could. Although slightly different sizes, both bras fitted me well.

How can I be two sizes?, I queried.

Which size you wear will depend on the manufacturer, she told me. So you should always try it on before you buy.

The da-da-da moment came as she told me what size bras I had just tried on. I was shocked. They were nowhere in the ballpark of what I had been wearing for the past EIGHTEEN years.

Happens all the time, she said. You should get yourself measured every 6-8 months actually.

Well I never. Ladies, do yourselves a favour and get fitted. It’s a whole new world upfront