Motherhood: It's Not all Apples.

When I was six months pregnant, I registered myself for an NCT Early Days postnatal course. Mistakenly thinking it was a course about childcare, I who had only changed a nappy once in my life pre Dragon, thought I would need all the help I could get.

Turns out I should've read the fine print. Early Days is actually a course for the mother. I quote my course leader:

Post birth, all the attention is on the baby. How is the baby? What should I do with the baby? Well what about the mother? She's going through a lot too. But no-one really asks about her. This course is for the mother. A place where she can discuss and examine how motherhood is impacting upon her.  After all, when a baby is born, so is a mother.

Great!  I thought. I'm in the right place.

I looked at all the faces around me and wondered what their stories were.

It turns out that most of their stories were the same. Shiny, happy love stories. Blissed up with baby stories. My life is complete stories.

It really pissed me off.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: The Veneer of Motherhood.

Is this what a good mother does? Dress identically to her children? Freaky.

Of course we all love our babies. Otherwise we would have killed them all by now for the torture of those early days/weeks/months. Let me tell you, the ONLY thing that keeps a baby alive when it allows you no sleep,  tears the skin off your nipple with her mouth, screams for hours at a time, ad infinitium (insert your trauma here), the only thing that keeps that baby alive is LOVE.

So it's a given that we love our babies.Would dive into a burning lake filled with vomit for them. Would throw ourselves in front of a stampede of mating brumbies for them (insert corny cliche here) 

But ladies, until that time comes when we must face the brumbies, let's do ourselves a favour and tell it like it is. I don't care how you put it. Changing twenty nappies a day is not blissful. Say it aloud. No-one is going to cart you off to the looney bin. Social services isn't going to come knocking. You are not a bad mother.

You are normal.

Going through a very normal, albeit, brutal rite-of-passage towards becoming a parent. The very core of your identity is shape shifting and that's gotta hurt at times.


But don't tell me its all fairy floss and rainbows. Just tell the truth.

A Little Tenderness For Heaven's Sake

is the name of the show I went to see at Sadlers Wells last Friday night. Actually the name was Un Peu de Tendresse Bordel de Merde! by Canadian choreographer Dave St Pierre.

I went to the show by default. A friend who works at Sadlers had free tickets and asked if I was interested. To be honest, I didn't even look to see what the show was. I just said Yes for it meant a night out without baby. A night out BY MYSELF. For the first time in nine weeks.

As I travelled on the tube to Sadler's, I looked around the carriage at the diverse, eclectic population that dwells in London and felt extremely happy. Each person in the carriage seemed so interesting.  For the first time since birth, I felt in sync with the city again.

When I got to Sadler's, I asked my friend, What show are we seeing?


Don't you know? 
No, I just wanted to get out
So if I'd asked you to come out and play chess, you would've come?
For sure. 

As it turned out, the show was the one that's been causing all kinds of controversy in the arts/dance world of late with its nakedness and dangly bits on display for all to see.  For me, it wasn't this that was shocking, although having naked men in blonde wigs clamber onto the audience and stick their penises in unexpected places was surprising; it was some of the other crudity within the show. I didn't think it needed to be so blatantly crude.  Pina Bausch, who St Pierre is obviously influenced heavily by, dealt with similar themes in a far more majestic yet intimate manner without resorting to in your face crudeness. I think the key difference was that Pina drew the audience in and made them feel connected to her pieces. St Pierre has more of a shove-it-in-your face-and-deal-with-it-attitude within this work.

They reminded me of Blonde Smurfs for some reason

That said, during the 145 min show there were moments of bright humour, wit and tenderness too. It was an interesting first night out post birth but for me the tube ride in had been far more engaging and peformative. Just goes to show that real life trumps art almost every time. 

Breast is Best? Give it a Rest.

Like any other human being, I have faced many challenges in my life. Death of loved ones, financial concerns, health glitches and the end of favourite television sitcoms. When I became pregnant, I thought giving birth would be one of these challenges.

How wrong was I.

Not that birth was a walk in the park. It hurt like hell. I once read that it felt like being set on fire, torn in half, then being cut up in bits and chucked into a pool of piranhas. I've not had any first hand experience of the above but it sounds fairly accurate.

No, my Waterloo moment came when I started to breastfeed. Before stitching my nether regions, the midwife clamped Dragon onto my nipple whereupon she unleashed her Hooverish industrial strength suck. Twenty minutes later, I asked:

Erm, is it supposed to hurt?

Yes at first. But it will get better in a few minutes , was the reply. 

One week later, I was still waiting for better to happen. I'd not slept since labour, cried constantly and dreaded feeding Dragon for it had come to equal agony for me. As a result I did not enjoy being with Dragon in that week as I 'd come to associate her with pain and trauma. It was horrible.

What's wrong with me?  I worried constantly. Why don't I feel good about my baby?  Why isn't it working? Is it supposed to hurt this much? Am I going to get post natal depression at this rate?

The parade of midwives that visited me post-natally all had different faces but the same message:

Persevere. Breast is best.

A few days later I hit the wall. It was either me or the baby. Husband and I took matters into our own hands and hired a lactation consultant. It was friggin expensive but when I called her, she was the first health professional who listened to me. Actually no. She was the first one who actually heard what I was saying.


I can hear you are desperate, she said over the phone, I'll come as soon as I can. 


That was the beginning of my climb out of breastfeeding hell although it has not been an easy time. I've had laser treatment on my nipples. Mastitis visited me three times. Dragon was diagnosed with posterior tongue tie. I got thrush in the nipple and Dragon got it on her tongue which we both still have. I developed a bacterial infection in my milk ducts.

One of the stated benefits of breastfeeding is that it is inexpensive but for me to try and get a hang of it has cost a fortune. Probably the cost of formula for a year. Just the lactation consultant alone was £70 an hour. But I had no choice as there was nothing else available to me on the NHS.

The roll call of medication I've taken because of breastfeeding complications has included antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, anti-fungal oral and topical treatment and paracetamol. A far cry from my pregnancy where nary a panadol crossed my lips for the entire nine months. The irony of this doesn't seem to filter down to the Breast is Best brigade who say:

The medication doesn't hurt the baby or the breastmilk.

But what about the mother? What about the effect of all these pills on her?

What about the I'm in Pain, Get this Baby Off Me position?

Because of my experience, I have learned more about breastfeeding than I ever desired to. I have spoken to and been seen by lactation consultants, breastfeeding counsellers, breastfeeding coordinators, breastfeeding pharmacists, personnel from the Breastfeeding Network and trained volunteers from the La Leche and NCT breastfeeding helplines.  So many people have looked at my boobs, nipples and latch that I am now more comfortable half naked with strangers than not.  From all these conversations and sessions I have drawn my own conclusions.

And that is the Breast is not always Best. And by that I mean breastfeeding. I do not mean breast milk which can have excellent benefits for the little one. But even this is contextual. After all, if the mum is taking in toxic substances or boozing it up or whatever, that isn't best at all.

The bond of intimacy created by breastfeeding between mum and bub is also only best if it is a positive experience for all. When I dreaded the sight of my daughter in the early days of breastfeeding, there was no constructive bonding going on.

Further to this, when Dragon started on the bottle and was fed by my Husband and my Mum, it created a bond between her and them that was special from an early age. After getting over my own ego of wanting to be The One and Only in my daughter's eyes, I fully appreciated how valuable it was that she be cared for by and trusting of others.  Like the saying goes, it takes a village....


The pressure on new mothers to breastfeed in the UK is immense. Whether it be direct pressure from midwives or lactation consultants who ignore the agony etched upon a new mother's face and only have one answer to all her entreaties (Breast is Best, Breast is Best)  or subliminal pressure such as being told things like, Imagine the discomfort of a cold, plastic teat in your baby's mouth as opposed to a nice , warm breast; it all serves to instill guilt in a new mother if she is not breastfeeding. It all serves to fuck her up!

As if she didn't have enough to deal with already.One lactation consultant suggested I find a pharmacist who would be willing to make up an ointment for me that duplicated a type sold in America but was not legal here to treat my nipple thrush as I'd had it for over a month.

Lady, I wanted to say, I have a newborn kid. I don't even finish a cup of coffee in the morning. I don't have time to find someone who will help me break the law.


The bulldozer approach is never going to win which is why the UK has such low breastfeeding statistics. There is insufficient support for women who run into problems in the first few weeks and so they give up. Or get trapped into a vicious cycle of complications and give up. It's all very well for the government to push breastfeeding as a message.  But with low resources invested in helping women establish it as a practice, the stats are going to stay low as there is nowhere to turn to when you run into trouble.  With Breast is Best continually shoved in their faces, new mothers will continue to suffer and feel guilty if they are unable to breastfeed.

It all makes me very angry and it's not just the post pregnancy hormones. The stress and pressure of breastfeeding robbed me of those early weeks with Dragon. I'll never get those first moments back. Had I known then what I know now, I would not have let breastfeeding take over the way it did post birth.

As for Dragon and I, we've got it all going on. Breast, bottle, boobmilk and formula. We're still finding our way but it WILL be our way and that's what's best for us.

New Parents Don't...

Just some observations of mine from the first few weeks of parenthood.

New parents dont't have mealtimes. They just shove in whatever they can scavenge as quickly as possible.

New parents don't have conversations with one another. They use walkie talkie lingo. Is she fed? Yes. Changed? Yes. Sleeping? Yes. Good.

New parents don't operate on clock time but feed and sleep time.

New parents are constantly lurching between terror and love.

New parents don't read more than three sentences at a time. Apart from articles found through Google about what to do if your baby is ____ (fill in the blank)

New parents don't get to finish cups of coffee or tea.

New parents don't fit their lives around anyone else apart from their baby. For now.

New parents don't care if you are put out by the new status quo. If you are a real friend, suck it up.

New parents don't care that much about themselves for now. As long as the baby is alright.

New parents don't do much for the first few hours but stare. At their baby.

New parents don't realise the scope of their own parents until it's their turn.

New parents don't want to hear negative things

New parents don't wear the emotional armour they usually have.

New parents don't know what the hell they are doing.

New parents don't want to ever go back to a life without their baby.

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.

Full as a Goog

After seeing a recent pregnant photo of yours truly, a friend of mine declared that I was:

As Full as a Goog.

Slightly taken aback I asked her what language she was speaking.

Australian as it turns out:

Phrase: full as a goog - (Australian, simile, colloquial): having eaten too much, or being drunk


Given that was several weeks ago, I wonder what she would make of me now?  Coming up to forty weeks pregnant I have surely transcended full googness and now reside in the State of Bureaugrade.

As in Violet Bureaugarde.


You know - the one in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory who blew up into a big, purple blimp!

Spot the Pregnant Lady, I mean Violet.

In the likely event that I go past my due date, I wonder what I will resemble past forty weeks?

Nah. Too happy. I will not be skipping anywhere at forty one weeks.

Yep. That's more like it.

March for the Alternative

I want to attend this march in central London on the weekend. I'm not happy about the slash and burn cuts being imposed by the government. Health, education, child welfare, heck- any welfare, human rights, immigration and diversity, arts and culture, literacy, legal and housing aid are all under threat.  And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

However there's a few logistical problems in my way. My husband. And the fact that I'm nine months pregnant.

Power to the Bumps!

My husband has threatened to get a court order to sanction me if I go to the march. He said he'll have me declared Not in Fit Mind under the Mental Health Act.

Do you not care about the kind of society we are bringing our kid into? I asked

I care more about you not being kettled in by the police or thrashed by a baton. I want the kid to make it here in one piece was the terse reply.

Fair enough.

So I'll watch it on TV instead although the media will no doubt focus on the idiot minority who turn a peacfeul protest into a violent farce. They won't focus on the 20,000 other people who have turned out to express their discontent.

Years ago when I was active in the environment movement, an oft quoted phrase in much of the campaign literature was that of anthropologist, Margaret Mead who said;

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.

She also said


Never depend upon institutions or government to solve any problem. All social movements are founded by, guided by, motivated and seen through by the passion of individuals.

Governments will come and go but Mead's words will stand the test of time.

Enter the Dragon

Where oh where did those nine months go?

Enjoy the time chirruped all my (wise) mum friends, It won't come again.

And as I find myself perched on the precipice of labour, I couldn't agree with them more.

Why is it that we pregnant-for-the-first-time-women spend nine months fretting and worrying and busying ourselves with a million and one inconsequentials only to find that as we stare into the pit face of the unknown (a.k.a giving birth at any point now), we are none the wiser and wide-eyed as ever. The armour of information and stuff that you've accumulated over the past nine months is precisely that. Armour. It may help you but it won't do the work for you.

I have no control of what is about to happen. A thought that is petrifying and thrilling at the same time.

Looking back, I can now say that I have enjoyed my pregnancy. Despite the discomfort of symptoms, the hormonal madness and sometimes difficult life changes, I have enjoyed observing what's been happening to me; both physically and emotionally. 

I appreciate though that it is only the very beginning of something. Something enormous and fantastical. And by that I don't mean Dragon's head.

What I mean, is Dragon's heart.

I'm soon to meet my baby.

Oh boy.

Tell it Like It Is

A friend posted this recently on Facebook. Too good not to share:

Good 'ol HR. Why call an apple and apple when you can call it a spade?

The Big C

Ever since Spencer Tracy uttered the immortal lines:

Not that I intend to die. But when I do, I don't want to go to heaven. I want to go to Claridges

it has been on my list of places to visit. Now that I have stayed there I too want to join Tracy in the afterlife; living it up in an art deco suite. Clinking whiskey tumblers and cuttin' the rug.

One of the finest actors of his generation, Tracy was also an alcoholic insomniac but I digress.

 

My suite or yours?

The heritage of Claridges is vast. Royalty, heads of state, movie stars have all graced its interiors since 1812 and left with their reputations intact for Claridges is discrete. With a capital D.

There was nothing discrete however about my excitement when we checked in and found out that we had been upgraded to a suite. A suite!

We noted that it's your first visit, they said to me, and that you are pregnant. We want you to enjoy yourself.

I think that's when I fell in love with Claridges.

The Linley suite which was ours for one glorious evening was Art Deco deluxe. There was no chintz to be seen anywhere.

After I'd done a few laps of the suite, touching things and concluding that the entire suite was larger than our apartment, there was a knock at the door. It was our butler. The butler that came with the suite. She had brought me a pregnancy pillow. Without being asked.

Rubbing my belly, I whispered to Dragon:

If you want to come early, now is a really, really good time to arrive. 

After our (all too short) stay, I realised what I loved most about Claridges was its understatement. It's not flash, modern or overly grand. It has no razzamatazz.

But what it does have is charm, elegance and the best damn customer service I have ever experienced at a hotel ever.

Which is why I wrote my first ever TripAdvisor review which tells a little bit more about our visit.

Forget dying. I'm going back way before then!

Movie-a-Go-Go!

Somewhere along the line in my pregnancy I read that you should go and see as many movies as possible before the baby comes. That those quiet soujourns in a darkened cinema would become a distant memory for some years to come.

Being a movie junkie at heart, I didn't need any further convincing and have spent many a blissful afternoon since in celluloid escapism.

Some of the flicks that I have seen include Black Swan, The Social Network, The Kings Speech, Morning Glory, Blue Valentine, Little Fockers and Another Year. Of the lot, The Social Network won it hands down for me. I love geeks. I always thought they would inherit the earth.

Maybe all this movie watching will make me one of these?

Before Dragon arrives, I'd also like to squeeze in Biutiful, Barney's Version, How Do You Know, Somewhere, True Grit, Rabbit Hole and Fair Game.

I'm topping up for the year to come. Can you blame me?

Childcare :The Buck Starts Here

About two months ago over dinner some friends suggested that we start thinking about childcare options for our unborn, unnamed baby. 

Freaked out on the way home, I said to the Husband:

But s/he's not even born yet!

He just shook his head and replied:

Homeschooling.

Dragon still isn't born but over the past few weeks I've started checking out some of the local nurseries in my area.  Up against the coalface of future parenting reality, I either have to ditch my university course which I'm loathe to do or locate some childcare options quicksmart for when I return to study. Quick being the operative word as places go fast. Even for an unborn child.

Are they sitting quietly because they've been drugged?

 The thing is that everytime I've been to see one of these nurseries, something in me breaks a little. It doesn't matter how nice the staff seem nor how happy the kids look. Whether the meals are organic or if the fees are expensive rather than exorbitant. I feel a little sad each time.

Will I be able to leave my child at one of these places? Maybe when the time comes I'll welcome the break?

I don't know.

It's a small taste of the heartbreak a parent goes through. And I don't even have my stripes yet.

Mama Ain't Raisin' No Fool!

I saw this today. It made me laugh: