Posted on May 4, 2015
Any day now, three of my dear friends will be bringing babies into the world. I wanted to write them, and all mums, a blessing.
I have many hopes for you. Many wishes.
I wish that when your journey toward meeting your beautiful baby begins you’re excited as well as scared, because of course it’s normal and right to be a little scared. It’s a powerful thing we get to do. Isn’t it amazing?
I hope you have support and love surrounding you from that first “is this labour?” thought to that first sharp intake of breath when you really know This Is It, and on to your midwife or surgeon telling you it’s time. I wish for you that you feel safe from beginning to beginning.
I hope your labour makes you feel powerful or it is just forgettable. That in a week you will gaze at your baby and think “I could probably do this again” Look at that beautiful baby you brought into the world. You did it!
When you feed you little one: I wish for every duct to remain unblocked, that you never have to send your partner down the road for cabbage, that your pump is always working. I pray not a drop of your expressed milk is ever spilled. Not one crack in not one nipple! That’s what I hope for you. I hope your supply is just perfect – not too little, not too much. And if it doesn’t work out, and somehow the universe doesn’t read this post – I hope bottles are guzzled with gusto, that milk is on special every time you go to buy it, that your snuggles are extra snuggly as your baby looks up at you their beloved mama.
I hope you don’t accidentally kill someone on Day Three. I wish your hormones to be completely under control. And if they’re not, I hope it all goes wrong in a hilariously harmless way that you can tell your coffee group about. I hope it’s such a funny story that they laugh with tears in their eyes and tell you that you should be a comedian. And in that moment I hope you feel overwhelmed – not by out of control estrogen, but by love from your fellow mamas. I wish you to always have a shoulder to cry on, someone to laugh with, someone to make you tea, and someone to gaze at your baby and say as their eyes fill with tears “you did so good!”
I hope you never have to clean your house. For at least nine weeks.
I wish that every cry can be easily hushed with a gentle pat. That there are long sleeps and good feeds. That car rides are easy, public transport always comes on time, visitors never overstay their welcome. I wish for you chocolate and cider, and sleeping on your tummy, and comfortable pants and good TV. I hope for visits from friends who have trays of lasagne for you. I hope for moments where you say “it’s honestly easier than I thought it would be”.
May you have unobtrusive but excited grandparents. Helpful family. Thoughtful and kind visits. May your buggy breaks never jam, your carrier always work the first time, no poo explosions in white clothes, and no vomit on your good clothes.
Some things I don’t have to wish or hope for – I know you will burn with love for your baby, I know those who love you will look at you with eyes shining because they’re so proud of you and so in awe of your strength. And I know you’re nervous about your first baby and how they’ll cope but I know they’ll fall more and more in love with your little one every single day. Just like you will (because I promise the second time around is just as earth-shattering).
And I also know if none of these things happen, if these wishes don’t come true, if these hopes aren’t fulfilled – I’ll be here for you. And you’ll do so well anyway – I just know it.
Posted on April 25, 2015
Every now and then someone will breathlessly say to me “I hate kids but I just adore Eddie!” I watch them smugly wait for me to fall over myself with gratitude as if this is some kind of compliment to me and my son.
It’s not a compliment. I’m not sure how I am meant to respond to it either. Ummm I’m glad you find my son aesthetically pleasing? I’m glad the stories about the cute things he does entertain you? I’m pleased that he has performed in such a way in front of you that you don’t hate him just because he’s a child? I mean really. The only thing you do when you say shit like that to me (or rant on Facebook or Twitter or Tumblr about how you hate kids) is make me put you on a list of people who I never want my kids to be around.
Saying you hate kids is hateful. It’s not edgy. It’s not cool. And if I ever, ever, ever made you think I’m “one of you” then my God I lost something in translation.
Too often I see people who think it’s cool to joke about “breeders” and how “gross” kids are. They just hate kids! But not yours…of course. I will never understand this horrible attitude. But I’m always especially surprised when I hear these comments from activists, and those in social justice circles, and from people who consider themselves feminists or allies. Because – you do know that nothing keeps women more isolated than feeling like they can never take their children anywhere right? And as a social group children are abused in huge numbers. They’re also silenced by those who are meant to protect them (from parents to politicians) and also by the fact that under a certain age they can’t talk at all or people think it’s cute to pretend not to understand what they’re saying. They’re also excluded from so many places already. And I mean – there are literally people who march in the street for the right to physically hit them. But umm you’re the oppressed one because you can’t enjoy your long black because a child is existing in your presence?
Anyway, this blog started as a rant about how grossed out I am by people who bitch and moan about children being in public spaces but then I thought – why give them more airtime?
So instead I’m going to go positive (but being on brand I’m also going to be a bit snarky) and thank some people for loving children in small ways. Because loving kids in public spaces means loving their parents. Loving women who are mostly the primary caregivers of most children. And generally just making the world a better fucking place for everyone.
So the biggie – thanks for not being an asshole in a cafe or restaurant! Thank YOU! Yes, you – that waiter who is run off her feet but still let’s my son practice his language by letting him order his own smoothie. You’re a fucking awesome person. Thank you to the dude at the table next to us who says ‘what a cool fire engine!’ to my son. Thanks for acknowledging his existence! You made him super happy because he fucking loves his fire engine. Thanks to the couple who mouth “it’s OK” and smile when I apologise for my little one crying. I don’t know why he’s crying and he’ll stop soon. So thanks for not making me feel awful about it when I’m trying everything I can to calm him down. Thanks to the clearly hungover group of students who smile and high five my son when he runs over to them to introduce himself. I’m sorry – he’s extroverted and you’re a big group of loud people and he loves big groups of loud people. Thanks to everyone who doesn’t scowl at us when we walk in and loudly claim “here we go. Why are there so many kids around here?” or laugh and say “ughhh breeders” as if I can’t hear them. While you click your fingers at waiters and then make them wait while you take photos of your eggs and tweet “I so hate kids #eggs” and leave all your messy dishes on the table in a pile and put cigarette butts out on your toast and sit for hours at your table instead of letting someone else use it and leave your newspapers in a pile on your food – I’ll smile at the waiter for you and we will comment about how you’re a bunch of turds.
Thanks for not being a jerk on flights. How much do flights suck? Isn’t it weird how parents also need to fly with their children? It’s like so arrogant for parents to want to fly with their kids. It’s almost like they want to see family or have a holiday like normal people do. Thanks for not audibly groaning when I sit next to you with my two kids. Thanks for playing peekaboo with my toddler through the seats while I breastfeed. I have been dreading this flight and your kindness makes me want to cry. Thanks for showing my son photos of your cat on your phone. He loves cats! You’re a fucking awesome person! Thanks so much for helping me with my bag. My back hurts so much and I am trying not to hold anyone up because I don’t want to be the reason why someone goes on Facebook and says kids are awful on flights. Thank you for not sighing and loudly complaining about my crying baby. I’m really overwhelmed right now. I wish I hadn’t booked a night flight but it was the cheapest option and I thought he’d sleep. I’m scared he’s in pain. I can see you rolling your eyes and grabbing your phone ready to tell everyone how useless I am – how useless all mothers who dare to travel with kids are. I’ve had a huge week and I just want to get to my dad’s place and have a bit of a break because I’m so exhausted. I’m sorry we’re both existing on the same flight as you. I am sure you’re tired too but being nasty probably won’t miraculously cure that? Thank you to the person in the aisle next to us for saying “It’s OK – my baby always cried on planes” or for gently patting my shoulder through the seat gap and saying “Not long to go”. You’re awesome. Your small kindness makes a massive difference.
Thanks for letting me be with my children in a public place. Thanks for not being an asshole about my buggy. I know it’s massive. I hate it. It’s like a monster truck – but this is the model that was given to us and it works because I have to walk everywhere so I need something sturdy. I know I am taking up space. I know I just knocked something over but I’ve picked it up and I need to get this medication and I can’t leave the buggy outside the chemist because it might get stolen. I am sorry for taking a buggy on a bus – but I can’t fold it down when I am carrying a weeks old baby. Thank you for helping me on and off. I get so embarrassed trying to do it on my own when I’m not really strong enough. Thanks for making room for me. Thanks for smiling instead of growling at me. I can’t afford two cars and my son loves his buggy. If you look into it he’s waving at you!
Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt that I’m not intentionally trying to piss you off by being near you with a child. Thanks for treating my son like a human being. He’s a great little person. All kids are. They have ups and downs just like anybody else. They feel overwhelmed easily and sometimes it’s hard to make them do what you want them to do because they’re people! Thanks for not getting angry when a child cries. I cried in a pie shop the other day and I’m an adult. If I’m allowed to without being scowled at by other adults surely a child is allowed to?
It’s a pretty radical act to just not join in when people start bitching about kids. To call them on it and say – hey, why don’t you help a mama out instead of bagging her? Why not smile at a kid – that might stop them crying! It’s easy to say “yeah, kids are the WORST” because like all human beings kids can be annoying. Believe me, parents know this better than anyone. But do the test – would you feel comfortable saying you hate women? Because you went to a shop and a woman was crying and it irritated you? Nah. Probs not aye?
Anyway, in short – thank you. Thanks for recognising a child’s right to be in a public place. Thanks for recognising that parents aren’t evil breeders out to destroy your #eggs and #longblack.
Posted on April 17, 2015
Today was not a good day.
The day started at 2.30am. It’s never a good idea to start your day at 2.30am.
The littliest one screamed in my ear. I was in a deep sleep. I was dreaming about Idris Elba. I did not want the things that were happening in that dream to end.
I put the baby on my boob and succumbed to the pain. It’s always painful on that side. Sometimes I think my right breast is possessed. That’s probably a sign that I’m not getting enough sleep.
Mercifully it is a quick feed. I can’t be bothered putting the baby back in his cot. He somehow wasn’t even in his cot anyway so I figure it’s ok for him to keep snuggling into me. I haven’t seen my husband in many, many years. I assume he is in the spare room bed with our toddler.
I groggily stumble into the toilet and see a snake. It is huge. I lunge for the towel rail because I need to stop myself falling backward. I break the towel rail.
The snake is a towel. We do not have snakes in New Zealand.
The baby wakes up.
I resettle the baby. My heart is racing. I’ll check Facebook to calm myself. The first photo in my feed is a fucking snake eating a fucking croc.
My breast hurts so much I can’t sleep anyway. So I just lay there imagining snakes. I try to turn them into fun snakes wearing top hats and getting upset because they don’t have arms and their top hats keep falling down. It doesn’t work.
Panadol doesn’t take my boob pain away.
It’s now 5am. I write a blog post about how much I hate breast feeding.
The baby wakes up. I feed the baby. It’s now 6am. I close my eyes.
At 7am my oldest comes in crying. He won’t tell me what’s wrong. My husband is looking for his work pants. He turns the shower on. I turn on Playschool. The baby cries again. It must be a growth spurt.
We are all late. Husband says he has to go. He’s sorry but he needs to get to this job. He cannot take our first born to crèche because our first born isn’t dressed because he’s watching Playschool. I force myself into the shower. The oldest jabs my stomach. “BABY INERE MAMA BABY INERE PUKU”. I scowl at him. He laughs. “Whasdat mama?” he says pointing to my stretch marks. The baby begins to cry.
I put on a bra and immediately leak through it. I get another bra. I hear the bus. I am not on the bus. I am looking for underwear.
The oldest boy has smeared my moisturiser all over the mirror in his room. I ignore it. I make a coffee and hear the bus. I am not on it.
My oldest son begins his crèche half day at 8.30am. It’s 9.30am. I cannot find the baby carrier.
I cannot find my oldest son. I look out the window and see our gate is closed so I just sit down and feed the baby. I read the blog post I wrote about breast feeding. It’s shit. I look for my oldest. He is filling a bucket with dirt and he has a hose in the bucket. He is filthy. I change him. The baby cries. I change my wet bra. We finally leave.
It’s 10.30am. I walk out just in time to see the bus leave without me on it. I begin to walk to crèche. It is so windy that I can barely hear my oldest screaming at me to STOP THE WIND MAMA. It’s quite pleasant.
The baby cries. Could it be teeth?
I see another bus. I tear across the road waving one hand while trying to steer the buggy with the other. The baby is laughing as he is bounced around in the carrier. My oldest yells “FASTER MAMA! FASTER!” from the buggy. The bus driver smiles at me and gets out of the bus to help me. “Lovely kids you’ve got there,” he says. Eddie says “HI I’M EDDIE!”
I struggle to get the buggy breaks on. A young girl offers me her seat. I wave her away. She coos at my baby. “What a cutie you are!” she says to him. He beams. Eddie says “HI I’M EDDIE!”
The bus driver gets up to help me off the bus. Before he can an elderly woman leaps up and helps me with the nappy bag which has fallen out of the buggy and spilled shit everywhere.
The bus driver, the nanna, and the young girl wave and smile at me from the window as the bus leaves.
Baby actually spills shit all over me. I walk into the crèche and Eddie leaps out of the buggy. “HI! I’M EDDIE” he yells. His kaiako cheerily greet me. They help me with my bags. They pull up a chair for my boy. They pass me a glass of water. They pull out his lunchbox. I realise it’s almost lunchtime. I say I need to go and they say “no worries! It’s all good.” I rush out to the sounds of my son crying. I bite back tears as my other son begins to cry. I watch the bus go past without me on it.
His kaiako rings me on my cell phone “I just thought you should know he stopped crying straight away. He’s playing in the sandpit. Everything is OK”.
I walk home. It takes an hour and 15 minutes. I am sweaty and covered in baby poo. I get home and put the baby in the sink. I put the carrier in the washing machine. After feeding the baby I realise I need to leave again to pick up the toddler. My husband comes home. He says he needed to get one of his tools. He drives me to crèche.
I stand at the door at crèche watching my son who hasn’t seen me yet. He is pretending to be a shark. He is screaming with laughter with the other children and their kaiako. He is covered in sand. He tells me he had SO MUCH FUN. I begin packing up his gear. The other mums smile kindly at me. “Full on day aye?”
I grimace awkwardly at them.
The baby cries. I have squeezed him into a sling and he hates it. My sister rings and I accidentally hang up on her. My oldest screams at me to stop the wind. I miss the bus. My sister calls again. I complain at her. I don’t even ask how she is. She asks for the boys sizes so she can buy some clothes for them.
I remember I have a guest coming at 4pm. It’s 3pm. The next bus is in half an hour. I go to the pie shop. I order a coffee. The lady offers to toast me a sandwich and gives me a warm smile. “It’s OK,” she says.
I think I didn’t thank my sister on the phone. Did I thank the bus driver? That girl? The nana? My husband? The kaiako? The other mums? Every person who spoke to me today has treated me kindly.
My baby snores softly on my chest. My toddler sleeps in his buggy – exhausted from his exciting day. My husband calls.
“See you soon hon. What a shitter of a day aye?”
I nod. Hang up. And start to cry
I cried in a pie shop. Because I’m thankful to everyone who is nice to mums who always miss buses.
Posted on April 3, 2015
My son’s current obsession is the Moon. Each night he insists that we take him on to the deck to look at the Moon. If he can’t see it he implores us to “geddit” for him. I’m not sure if this is a diversionary tactic ahead of bedtime. Either way, he’s all about the Moon right now.
So I’m looking forward to Capital E’s National Theatre for Children production of Kiwi Moon for obvious reasons. The good folks at Capital E contacted me after I wrote about their National Arts Festival. They offered me tickets to see another show during the festival – Orchestra of Spheres: The Sound & Light Exploration Society.
I don’t really know how to describe The Orchestra of Spheres. They have home made instruments. They dress in awesome outfits – kind of like drunk hipsters at the Sevens but without the hideous cultural appropriation. And their show is a weird orgasm of sound and light (fitting I know). I mean it sounds pretty messed up to say orgasm when referring to kid entertainment but they’re not really kid entertainment. For starters – you don’t want to smash your skull into the nearest piece of concrete when you listen to them, so that’s a sure sign that they’re not a made-for-kids band. They also seem to avoid mind-numbing kid lyrics (you know what I mean by kid lyrics – yesterday, on Play School they had a song that included the lines: “they’re egg-shaped because they’re eggs”) Don’t get me wrong – the kids LOVED the show. My little E and and his bestie were dancing in the aisles, as were most of the other kids at the show. But they are a band that could and do play pubs and clubs, and you can see why. It really was joyous music. Weird, funky, psychedelic, jamming art that had plenty of sass.
It’s a shame that at the show I went to the crowd really only got into it for the last two songs. I think that was possibly due to it being a matinee performance. We had the kids on our laps and they were pretty desperate to get on their feet, but it wasn’t until the front-person-tree-jellyfish told everyone to stand up that we felt we had permission to let the youth go wild.
Eddie said his highlights were: The World Moon (a giant white balloon that they projected images of the world on to, it did look like the Moon) and The Tree Man (for the last song the front person-triangle was dressed like, you guessed it, a tree). We had a great time and surprisingly the 50 minute show felt short. There was some kind of theme to it – a trip through the universe. The theme did kind of remind me of some of the experimentation I did in my youth but we won’t go into that. I’d definitely see them again.
But I’m really looking forward to Kiwi Moon which opens tomorrow. The season runs until the 18th of April. It will be my lad’s first theatre show. I’ll post a review once I’ve taken him along. Here’s what it’s all about:
A little white kiwi thinks the moon might be his mother because it is white and bright and round like him. Prepare to snuffle and shuffle through the forest floor, hula with the huhu grubs, watch out for the wekas, and calypso with the handsome kakapo in this charming tale of one little white kiwi’s quest to find his place in an often strange and sometimes dangerous world.
That sounds pretty damn cute to me. Maybe if I ask super nicely Capital E will flick me a family pass for me to give away to any Welly parents reading this. Keep an eye on my Facebook page or check back here for updates. And if you see Kiwi Moon please let me know what you think of it. I think it’s great to support kids theatre. I’m doing my best to make sure my bogan kids get some culture in ’em.
Have you taken your kids to a show before? Did they like it?
Book tickets to Kiwi Moon here.
- Dates Sat 4 – 18 April
- Where Hannah Playhouse, 12 Cambridge Terrace, Wellington
- Times 11am, Mon-Sat (2pm performance on Sat 4 April)
- Age 2-7 year olds
- Price $12.50 per person; $44 for groups of 4; $10 per person for groups of 10 or more; under twos go free
Posted on March 31, 2015
I hate Thomas the Tank Engine. I hate it. I think Thomas is a naïve arrogant asshole who sacrifices other trains to further his career and suck up to the Fat Controller. Sodor is quite frankly a capitalist nightmare. Trains are sent to the scrapyard if they’re not Useful. And we all know what that means – it means they’re executed. They execute workers who don’t work hard enough! Anyone who isn’t Very Useful is goneburger. There are no unions in Sodor that’s for sure. And that’s not even the most fucked thing about Sodor either. Don’t get me started on how lacking the representation of women is on the show. The women trains are actually girl carriages. You don’t need to have a masters in gender studies to read between the lines on that one. Either they have no personality (Daisy) or they spend all their time giggling and chasing after Thomas and the other dudebro engines nagging them (Annie and Clarabelle). I feel like there’s a weird subtext about lady trains and that time of the month as well but I’m very tired and certainly not very useful right now.
What about Hiro? Poor Hiro was taken as a slave. He dreams of his homeland. But when he’s too old to work anymore, after a lifetime of service, do you think his “owners” will let him go home? Hell no! Coz this is Sodor and life on Sodor is an endless grind of working until you die. You’re Helpful or you create Confusion and Delay and you’re dead. Hiro ends up wasting away in the damn forest! But this is a better fate than being slaughtered by Topham Industries AKA The Government. Thomas finds him and of course Thomas dobs him in to “help” him get back to his home. Thomas signed Hiro’s death warrant and he didn’t even realise because he can’t see beyond his white privilege. He doesn’t know that one day he won’t be useful anymore. And ain’t nobody going to save him then.
I especially hate Thomas the Tank Engine because my son loves it because somebody bought him one train and that was it. It’s like an addiction. It’s toddler crack. And he can’t say “Thomas the Tank Engine” he says “Thomas the Asian” and when we are out IN PUBLIC he yells at me to get him an Asian. Or he yells “WE-AHS MY ASIAN MUMA” and I have to really loudly yell “I don’t know where your ENGINE is. Maybe your ENGINE is in the car. No I won’t buy you another ENGINE”. And someone one day will buy your child a Thomas train and that train won’t fit on the tracks you have. And the tracks you have won’t go with the other tracks someone will buy you. And you will have eight different tracks that don’t go together and you will need a second mortgage to actually build just one figure eight track and have the trains to go with it.
AND I THINK I’M JUST GONNA DOUBLE DOWN ON THIS RANT:
I hate Jeff from the Wiggles. Fuck you Jeff. Why are you always sleeping. You don’t do anything. Do you know how much I want to sleep Jeff? But if I just go to sleep instead of looking after my kid I’ll be reported to the authorities. Do your job Jeff.
I hate Elmo. My husband keeps telling me that Elmo is three and a half and I have unrealistic expectations about his behaviour. But fuck that. Elmo is an entitled little prick. And Abby – I hate Abby. Why do the adults on Sesame Street never stop Abby from doing her “magic” when they know she will fuck it up? Why is there so little adult supervision on that street? They all pop in for a song but then they just piss off after rattling off a few numbers or some dictionary definition. Maybe hang around and actually stop Abby. She’s out of control. And stop whining Big Bird. How old are you anyway?
What is up with Mr Noodle. Just no. Why does an adult man need to be taught how to throw a ball. And why does he live in the closet of a three-and-a-half year-old’s house?!?!
AND IT’S NOT JUST TV! BOOKS *flails* BOOKS:
Maisy, you are illogical. Why would a mouse be friends with a chicken? Why is everyone always shaming Eddie for not fitting into places. He’s a fucking elephant. What did you expect?
Rock on Scuffy the Tug Boat. Don’t let the man bring you down. They might be telling you not to chase waterfalls and to please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to but that’s because they’re classist. You have just as much right to hang out with the barges as any other boat. Keep on keeping on Scuffy.
And the worst: Love You Forever. Damn woman! Leave your kid alone. Let him sleep! When he turned nine you should have been assessing your health. It’s just not good news when you’re that fixated on your child not growing up. Getting on a bus at night and breaking into his house so you can sniff him when he’s a grown ass man? That’s NOT RIGHT. And if you had to call him to tell him you’re sick, you clearly don’t have a great relationship – and that’s probably because YOU ARE BREAKING INTO HIS HOUSE AT NIGHT AND TOUCHING HIM WHILE HE SLEEPS! And dude, I know your childhood was hardcore what with your mum creeping on you every night and not respecting your boundaries, but you need to break the cycle!
So I guess it’s just Jay’s Jungle, Play School, and Margaret Mahy books in this house.
Jay, you’re great. You just keep being a lovely, singing, handsome man. While I think it’s mildly narcissistic that the island you live on is shaped like a J, and it’s weird that your “friend” is a talking lighthouse I’m willing to let that slide because of your soft, sensuous singing voice. You keep being you Jay.
This post is dedicated to my sister who is the best person to rant to about Thomas. I love you Jo.
If this makes you angry and you want to comment all angry-like: Relax, it’s a joke, it’s meant to be a laugh…
Posted on March 25, 2015
I once received some excellent advice from two wonderful women who at the time were holding a tray of fish pie.
“Take help when it’s offered,” they said.
Why is it so hard for us to accept help? When you’ve just expelled a human from your body, and you’re exhausted, sore, and overwhelmed, it should be easy to say “yes, thank you, I’d love that”. But it’s not, at least for me it’s not. And I’m sure other mums feel the same.
In the days after my second son was born I had quite a few offers from friends and I turned quite a few down. For no reason! I thought, oh I don’t want to be a pain, oh I’m not that hard up right now, oh that would be good but I don’t want to seem needy. It’s so bizarre!
Someone offered to make me fudge and I said no. I said no to fudge. What the fuck was wrong with me?
My friends with the fish pie gave good advice. And I listened to them because they’re very wise. They’ve got two gorgeous boys and they’re mum inspirations (you’re thankful I didn’t say mumspirations right? Who the fuck even says that?) Anyway, I admire them and think they’re very clever and I want my boys to grow up and be as loved and spirited and supported as their boys are. So I started saying: Yes, thank you heaps! Instead of: No, I’m fine.
And it was great. I got chocolate and peanut butter brownie which I scoffed down as my son cluster fed. That same friend who is literally The Nicest Person I Know brought us a bag of goodies from the supermarket – my husband was in awe. There were ice creams in there. Fancy ones. She’s continued to be a huge support to me eight weeks on.
Our closest friends brought round KFC! The bogan food of the Gods. I thought my husband might cry with joy. They gave us hugs as well as the baby, it was wonderful. We sat there with stupid grins on our faces gorging on fried chicken and thinking “shit, we are lucky”.
I got the most incredibly huge amazing lasagne there ever was from another friend who will one day be the most excellent mother. Damn, her future kid will be lucky to have her. I got a damn cheesecake! A cheesecake! The cheesecake was from a friend who is the most selfless, kindest person. She too is going to be a such an awesome mum one day I just know it.
I basically lived on the lactation cookies another super busy friend made me. I will probably look back on those days in years to come and still think about how great those cookies were.
Another totally badass and awesome friend who I so admire for her bravery and strength bought me medication for a blocked duct within hours of me having a cry about the pain I was in. She wouldn’t take money from me to pay for it.
I could literally list so many lovely people who kept me company and dropped gifts off in those first three weeks. Also, a lot of them were friends on Twitter (one day I will write about how Twitter is your best internet home for support as a parent).
I now know that accepting help is so important. When I started accepting help (or at least trying to) I stopped feeling so overwhelmed. I stopped feeling so isolated. I stopped feeling so scared. So alone. It’s really, really hard to ask for help. Harder than it is to accept I reckon. So when it’s offered – take it, even if it feels weird.
And if you’re in a position to help a new mum, maybe just give her stuff (especially if it’s food) even if she doesn’t expressly ask for it. It can be hard to get past that “I don’t want to be a pain” reflex that a lot of women have. Women are taught to always be the provider, to always help instead of being helped. It can be really hard to overcome all that social conditioning to allow someone else to look after you. I’m grateful to my friends who just said “I’ve made you some dinner, when can I bring it over?”
So thank you! Seriously, thank you so much. To all the people out there who make cheesecakes for new mums. The ones who make lactation cookies. The people who drop off fancy ice creams or expensive tit medicine. The people who drop off lasagne and are the perfect guests because they only stay 15 minutes and wash their hands before they hold the baby. You’re all actually saints. You’re angels. You’re wonderful, awesome people. You’re making life easier for new parents – that’s huge. Thank you.
And mums: say THANKYOU and YES PLEASE. Trust me on this. You’re not being a pain.
Also, always listen to lesbians brandishing fish pie. They know their shit. Trust me.
Posted on March 21, 2015
Sometimes when I want to feel bad about myself I go on Pinterest and look at what mums who have their shit together are doing.
I look at their miraculous messy play ideas at 3am and resolve to do them the next day with my toddler. My broken sleep is dominated by dreams of my son and I deliriously happy playing with home made rainbow snow and glittery gloop and glow in the dark playdough.
And then I wake up and reality hits.
“Shall we make some playdough?”
“No. No. I don want dat playbo”
“Come and make playdough with mama! It’ll be soooo much fun,” I say with forced cheeriness.
“No fun. No. Cars”
I lovingly make the playdough while my son plays with his cars. He ignores my perky, sing-song commentary. He’s probably thinking “who replaced my mum with this Stepford Wife?”
I put glitter in the playdough. I follow the recipe to the letter but the playdough is slimey. I add more flour. Now it is crumbly. I add more water. The glitter clumps together. It’s both slimey and crumbly now. The recipe says it’s fool-proof.
My son looks at the playdough then at me.
“I don like dat”
I don’t know who he’s referring to. I chuck the playdough into the bin. I used an entire packet of flour.
I will make gloop. It has three ingredients. Surely I can’t fuck this up.
I crush coloured chalk to make four bowls of gloop. All are different colours. My son is absolutely delighted. It has taken me all morning to make the gloop and get it to be the right consistency.
“I like dat!”
I am ecstatic. Such praise! I run to grab the camera. It takes me three seconds.
I return to find the bowls of coloured goop on the concrete by the front door.
“Finish mama. I finish da goop”
I will make snow. The recipe says “Easiest clean play recipe”.
I have decided that after spending two hours cleaning up after the eight second gloop messy play I want to have clean play.
Three cups of baking soda. One cup of water.
It looks like snow. The toddler is excited. He begins to play with it and I think “good, I can empty the dishwasher”. I take one cup from the dishwasher and the toddler appears.
“Where’s your snow?”
“I throwed dat snow away Mama”
He has tipped the bowl of snow from the deck onto the roof of the neighbour’s house.
That night I don’t dream of being a Pinterest mum. I look at the photos of the Pinterest mums and imagine them sneaking Valium and hiding vodka in their tea. Nobody can be that perfect.
In the morning a little voice says to me.
“Paint mine face mama? Eddie paint mine mama’s face?”
I look up “home made face paint”. I scan the recipe. I go to the shop and buy face paint instead. I know my abilities now. I know my shortcomings.
I put the different colours into a muffin tray. I google “face paint designs”. I look at the first website and read the instructions for “butterfly”. I roll my eyes. Yeah right. I turn off the computer.
I hand my son a paintbrush. “Make mama a butterfly,” I say.
He screeches with laughter as he paints my face. We get out a mirror and I paint his face as a “butterfly” letting him instruct me on how to do it just right.
Afterwards we both look utterly ridiculous. We look into the mirror and he says “we beuful budderfies mama!”
Because we’re on a roll, I grab the corn starch and pull the hose out. We grab a bucket and he grabs clumps of corn starch and chucks whole pieces of chalk into the bucket with the corn starch and then puts the hose in.
It makes an unholy mess and my little baker declares he is making GLOOP PIES! He then throws the gloop in the air because now he’s making GLOOP PANCAKES!
We look like a Pinterest nightmare. And it’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. His screams of laughter reverberate around the neighbourhood. And we play for two hours.
Perfection is overrated.
Posted on March 18, 2015
I said goodbye to my midwife last week.
I remember my excitement when I first heard her voice on the end of the phone. I was pregnant. Finally! My husband and I were absolutely ecstatic and utterly terrified. We had gone to our GP to declare our good news. Our test had been positive the day we had decided to bite the bullet and “do” IVF so we had seen them the day before. It was so surreal.
My husband said: “aren’t you going to do a test?” Our GP stared at him bemused “well didn’t you do a pregnancy test?” He asked.
I’d done five, I’d been buying them in bulk so I just kept peeing on them. Stick after stick. My husband stared disbelieving as every one showed two stripes.
“One means you’re pregnant. You did five. So you’re pregnant.”
I think we just didn’t want to trust a stick. Or five sticks. I’d had four surgeries to treat endometriosis. My first was just two weeks after meeting my husband. We were 17 and 18. I was told then I would struggle to have kids. I went off contraception after my third surgery. I had scar tissue, a damaged Fallopian tube, and we wanted kids. I was 22. I got pregnant at 26.
They take photos of your insides when they go in during surgery and you can request them afterward. I put mine on the fridge. When people would peer at the photos and say “wow, what’s that?” I took great delight in saying “That’s my uterus!” I’ve always been an oversharer.
Our GP said our first step was a dating scan and then provided that went well, we needed to find a midwife. The dating scan was important our GP said, we were at risk of ectopic pregnancy because of my medical history. We needed to wait another two weeks for the scan. Our honeymoon was booked for the next day. We went on our honeymoon worried the whole time that our baby was in the wrong place (the nice way of referring to an ectopic pregnancy I suppose). We said we wouldn’t get excited and instead would pretend I wasn’t pregnant until we returned and had the scan.
Two hours into our honeymoon we bought a onesie that said “I listen to Led Zeppelin with my daddy”. I puked all over the floor of our fancy hotel room. I puked in our fancy hotel bed. We went down to the hotel lobby to have our buffet breakfast and I puked in a plant. I’m sorry for puking in a plant hotel I won’t name.
I puked watching Lamb of God, Hell Yeah, Slipknot, Marilyn Manson, Gojira, and System of a Down at Soundwave. My husband gazed lovingly at me the whole time. Every spew was a good sign he said.
We had our dating scan a few hours after arriving back in New Zealand. We sobbed staring at the little eight week dot. Our dot was in the right place. We carried the picture around for weeks insisting that it looked like us. The dot replaced my messed up (but clearly not that messed up) ovaries on the fridge.
We booked a midwife. Hearing her say congratulations down the phone was one of the most exciting moments in my life. It signalled so much. Our long wanted journey had begun. It was real. Our midwife made it real.
I had a terrible pregnancy. I vomited every day for 25 weeks. Then I vomited every second or third day for the rest of my pregnancy. But my midwife was always there with me. She cheered us on. She kept me excited even when I was exhausted and overwhelmed. She more than tolerated my tears of frustration in her office. She was more than my midwife, she was my counsellor too.
I felt so guilty that I had wanted a baby for so long but I absolutely hated pregnancy. I didn’t feel in touch with my body, I couldn’t stop puking, I felt unhealthy, exhausted, overwhelmed, I sure as fuck wasn’t glowing. She was so patient and caring and gentle with me. She always made me feel like I was strong and she gave me so much confidence. She never denied my feelings.
My midwife wasn’t actually there for my first son’s birth. It was her weekend off. But she’d built me up and made me feel brave so I wasn’t scared when he came at 37 weeks. The on-call midwife was lovely. I have never met a midwife who isn’t a wonderful person. It seems to just be a prerequisite. There must be something about the job that attracts selfless people.
In New Zealand we have an amazing system that includes post-partum support so my midwife continued to visit for six weeks after my son was born. When he developed health complications she continued to support me for a further three weeks, helping me navigate that difficult world, before gently handing me over to a specialist team. She was always professional and I felt like she really cared about us. I really feel that she set my little whānau up to prepare for all of the challenges that lay ahead. There is nothing more terrifying than having a sick child, but I had moments of calm in the dark of the hospital late at night when I thought of my midwife telling me I was strong and I could Do This.
I swore I would never have another baby all the way through my pregnancy so I loved hearing my midwife’s familiar laugh two years on when I rang her to say I was pregnant again. I had another terrible pregnancy which I will likely one day blog about. But again, my midwife was a rock. She shared my care with another midwife who I immediately fell in love with. She had tattoos and pink hair. I mean Jesus: She was My People! She helped me breast feed so she’ll forever have a place in my heart. Every time my little one hungrily gulps down milk I think of her. She also helped me when I started to really lose it from all the vomiting. My second pregnancy took a huge emotional toll on me. The support I had from my midwives was everything during those months where I felt so out of it. They respected me. They were professional. Kind. Gentle. Caring. Compassionate.
My main midwife delivered my second boy and she was incredible. Again, one day I’ll blog his birth story because that shit was crazy. But honestly, she was amazing. There’s no way I would have made it through that labour and delivery without her incredible skill and support.
I’ve been cared for by five midwives over my two pregnancies, one for a delivery, another for a false alarm, another for another false alarm, and another as cover for my main midwife…they’ve all been awesome, awesome people. I want to thank them all. I want to thank all of the midwives who care for us and bring our babies into the world. I want them always to have chocolate in their fridge and coffee in their pantries.
I said goodbye to my midwife last week and it broke my heart a little bit. I thanked her of course, but my words weren’t adequate. How can you ever thank someone enough for making you a family, twice?
My midwife made me a mother. I can never thank her enough.
Posted on March 15, 2015
What Feels Like Everyone: “Is he sleeping through the night yet?”
Me (through gritted teeth): “He’s doing great!”
Me (screaming in my head): He’s six weeks old!! What the fuck do you think? He’s a newborn baby! Of course he’s not sleeping through the night. Dick.
WFLE: “My cousin’s baby slept through the night from just a few weeks old!”
Me (trying to restrain myself): “That’s truly something else. Your cousin is lucky!”
My internal scream: Your cousin doesn’t exist. Your cousin is full of shit or you are full of shit. Newborn babies are not expected to sleep through the night.
WFLE: “You should try sleep training. That’s what she did”.
Me: “I’m not worried. He’s doing great.”
Losing my mind: HE WAS JUST BORN. I hope you fall over and do something to your ankle. I hope it’s sore for three days but not that sore that you can’t work because I’m not that mean. I hope you get a really bad paper cut!
I know people are just trying to make conversation, but why are people so utterly obsessed with asking about how new babies are sleeping. I mean fair enough if the kid is one or two but come on! I got asked if my littliest was sleeping two days after he was born. TWO DAYS.
He’s delicious. He smells like rainbows. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done (along with my bigger baby). He smiles this gummy smile when he looks up at me. His hair is so soft. His cheeks are so fat. He is so perfect I want to have ten of him. Who gives a rats ass about whether he sleeps X hours at a time yet? He just got here. Just stare at him for a while. Welcome him! He’s perfect isn’t he?
And to the people who ALWAYS have to point out their sister’s neighbour’s ex-wife’s cousin’s baby slept through the night from 8 hours old. Wow, so awesome. That’s a great thing to tell someone who is probably waking up every three to four hours if they’re VERY LUCKY.
Or if your baby is one of those extremely, incredibly, exceptionally rare babies that slept for very long periods overnight from early on – how grand for you. Congratulations. Keep it to yourself.
Nobody who isn’t sleeping needs to hear that you’re sleeping, or that your friend’s brother’s aunty’s mother is. Nobody.
Also, this fixation other people have on newborns sleeping through the night is why I thought my firstborn would magically sleep through the night from eight weeks old. LIES! LIES!
Newborns aren’t meant to sleep all night. They have to wake up for feeds. It sucks, their mums are freakin exhausted. So don’t tell tales about sleep. Just look at how cute they are. And make mum a coffee. She needs that more than talk about an imaginary baby that slept through from seven minutes old.
*collapses into a heap*
Posted on March 14, 2015
We don’t get out as much as a family as I’d like us to. I remember the early days of parenting. We loved dressing up our first born and going out together on little adventures. We loved swanning around together, high off our new family status.
I guess something has been lost in the years since because our second is six weeks old – and today was the first time we *properly* went out as a family.
We stopped going out as much as a family for a few reasons, but mainly it was money and needing to rest. My husband often picks up whatever extra work he can on the weekend and then when he’s not working he takes one of the boys or both of the boys out so I can sleep. If he’s exhausted from working I do the same. We had started to work in shifts, it was great for sleep and rest, each of us getting a bit of “me” time, but it’s not so great for family life. We were getting to be like ships in the errrm…day.
A few weeks ago I took my two and half year old to the Island Bay Festival. My husband had a well deserved few hours rest at home watching the Cricket World Cup (which is my idea of Hell). I raced around with the kids. The MC at the festival announced there would be a dance competition. The toddler, upon hearing the word “dance”, sprinted to the stage and began throwing shapes as only he can. He won the prize for “most memorable dancer”. It was a family pass to a Capital E National Arts Festival Show: Dirt and Other Delicious Ingredients.
We decided we would go as a family – It being our firstborn’s first show and all. This morning he woke up with his usual morning mantra “Hello Mama! I’m Eddie!” but then afterward came the SHOW SHOW SHOW SHOW chant that continued unabated for the next five hours, basically until we entered Shed 6 at 11.30am.
The excitement reached fever pitch then. He began shaking all over like some kind of hypothermic chihuahua. On the stage there was piles of “dirt” – coffee beans, cloves, cinnamon, leaves, that kind of thing. In the middle of the stage was a dancer in white and brown with cinnamon sticks balanced on her arms. Well, he could not contain himself. “DIRTY! SHE GOT DIRTY ON HER ARMS!” As the lights went down he started to emit a low-level squeee that continued for the first five minutes of the performance.
There were five very talented dancers from the Java Dance Company – they danced in the coffee beans and cloves and cinnamon and made music by slapping their arms and legs and big wine barrels, and two of them also played the cello, violin, and mandolin. There was a lot of clapping which is basically Eddie’s favourite thing to do after dancing. When they brought out a marching drum it was like he had reached some kind of next level of toddler heaven. He went really quiet and I thought he might be transcending space and time or something.
Then the dancers threw tomatoes at each other. To our toddler this was the funniest thing he had ever seen ever. EVER. As if that wasn’t enough, three of the dancers climbed into a wine barrel full of water. “They in the bath when they dirty dancing!!” he cried. He looked like he might actually cry from witnessing something so incredible. A bath! On a stage! With people dancing in it! The audience of kids were losing their minds at this point.
Mr Boganette and I kept laughing at his thrilled reaction, but as well as the joy of seeing him so happy, we also really enjoyed the show (there was mad chemistry between two of the dancers, a nice extra for parents who haven’t had sex in forever because their kids never sleep).
Just as my little whānau were reaching peak warm fuzziness, the show ended. At 40 minutes it was just the right length for an under-five. Most of the kids in the audience rushed the stage to touch and smell the “dirt” and meet the dancers.
Our tiny dancer declared “I like dat” which is truly his highest praise. It feels like all we usually hear is “I don like dat” so it felt like a small miracle to hear that he could like something. Feeling really chuffed and swoony all over, we decided to have a treat by taking a walk around the harbour. We didn’t know the Waka Ama was on, so that was an added bonus. It was so fun to watch that we decided we would get a kebab each to keep our lovely day going. Our boy, in true toddler fashion, refused to eat any of our kebab, or his healthy snacks that we’d brought with us, so we let him have mini donuts – because fuck it.
As we sat watching the waka action and eating our yummy treats a covers band playing at the park started wailing Paranoid. Then Under My Wheels which Eddie recognised and started screeching “Wheel song! Wheel song!” He started headbanging with a mini donut in each hand.
It was then that I realised that actually, we HAVE to do this more often. It might be a hassle to get out with the kids, we might be broke, we might be tired – but as cheesy as it sounds, reconnecting as a whānau has to be a priority. I find it so easy to put having quality time together in the too hard basket. I keep saying that because we are a chilled out family, and we express our love for each other often, and don’t really fight, we don’t need to be ‘doing stuff’ all the time. I think though, I didn’t realise that we are actually practically never doing stuff at all.
Today really made me realise that going out together, with no distractions, just a fun activity or two, maybe a treat – is just really life-affirming. And important.
In the car on the way home our little one said “Eddie’s happy. Daddy’s happy. Mama’s happy. Widdle Baby Wonnie is happy”. If that isn’t a call to action for my partner and I – well, I don’t know what is.
It’s doubtful we will be able to afford to see any more shows at the National Arts Festival (though I do think they’re really reasonably priced and heaps of them look AWESOME) but I am going to try to seek out things we can do as a family and try to actually do them.
So let me know what you do as a whānau so I can steal your ideas because my brain is mush from lack of sleep.
Also, Widdle Baby Wonnie slept through the whole show drums and all because of course he did. A sneeze at 3am wakes him up but 40 minutes of banging and screaming (Eddie’s) is a lullaby…Go figure.