Posted on July 23, 2015
Careless words
Trigger warning: Ableist slurs and language
EDIT: I wanted to add something to this post after a discussion on Twitter. All disability communities have their own preferences for the best way to address identity-first language issues. In the Autism community this article really eloquently sets out the reason why there is a preference for “autistic person” rather than “person with autism” UNLESS they have a personal preference for “person with autism”. They talk about the issues with identifiers that focus on the person first as separate to their disorder:
“It is impossible to affirm the value and worth of an Autistic person without recognizing his or her identity as an Autistic person. Referring to me as “a person with autism,” or “an individual with ASD” demeans who I am because it denies who I am.”
I think that should be considered in the context of reading this post. My child is neurotypical and I am presenting the views below as a parent with a child with health challenges and a health condition that has massively impacted his young life. I am his voice and advocate until he no longer needs me to be (or forever if he wants me to be) I can only talk about the language that I believe is dehumanising below – as a parent of a child with a health condition. But there are absolutely commonly understood ableist slurs that are absolutely accepted as ableist slurs. The discussion I had on Twitter really helped me understand how important it is to not speak for a community you’re not part of.
I am blessed with good comments on this blog. Generally, everyone is really nice. I occasionally get comments that start with “I feel really sorry for your kids…” and I just trash them. I don’t need to hear that shit. Particularly from people so pathetic they trawl mummy blogs just to insult the women writing them. I’m not here for that.
But sometimes comments stick with me and they hurt. Not just comments on here (though I’ll get to that..) but just comments in general.
I’ve never really understood the “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me” adage. Names and words do far worse than break bones – they can stay with you for months, years….forever…When you think you’ve moved on from them they wake up with the baby at 3am and sit at the back of your brain. They cloud over your eyes as you try to focus on just enjoying a moment with your children.
So many times I’ve stood grinning ear to ear watching my son twirling or leaping or singing or drawing and suddenly horrible words said to me months before have jumped into my brain. They sit in my mouth as if I said them myself. I know they’re not true. And often the intent was never to hurt me. But they hurt nonetheless. I sometimes physically shake my head to get them to leave.
All parents have to deal with hurtful comments at some point. It seems to just come with the territory. But just because it comes with the territory, and it’s common, it doesn’t mean it’s OK. It doesn’t mean we should just accept it.
And cries of ‘just ignore them!’ do not help at all. If we could ignore them – we wouldn’t be upset by them. And the ‘who cares what other people say’ – often coming from people who say mean, shitty things and use that defence. Who cares what they say means who cares what I say and it’s so convenient to have no care for the impact of your words….
I’ve blogged before about my son’s health journey. I don’t talk about it much – it’s difficult to talk about. But his condition is behind one of the most unintentionally hurtful comments I’ve received – and that’s what I want to write about.
I got many comments on the Grateful post that wished for me to have sick children. If I had a sick child I’d shut up. If I had a child with a disability I’d be grateful for my “normal” kids. I was told I was a selfish bitch who should have a stillborn or have my kid die – then I’d stop complaining. Then I’d be a good mother.
A good mother is a mother who never complains. A good mother is quiet and meek. A good mother never, ever voices an opinion on anything. She lives for her child and never for herself and diminishes herself as much as possible. If children are seen and not heard a good mother is invisible as well as voiceless.
Here’s the thing – I knew the people writing those comments didn’t have children with disabilities or health conditions because of the language they used. For a start, parents of children with extra needs don’t call children without health issues “normal”. They don’t call children with autism “autistics” or children with delays or disabilities “deformed”, “dumb” or “feeble”. They certainly don’t use the term “crippled” or say “if you had an invalid”. Language is important here, and here’s why:
Our children aren’t their conditions.
Our children aren’t their health challenges.
Our children aren’t their disabilities.
They are children WITH conditions. WITH health challenges. WITH disabilities. But they’re not only that condition, that challenge, that disability. They’re not your inspiration. They’re not your sad story to tell at coffee group. They’re not your thing to shame mothers who share the difficulties of parenting with other parents.
I had many comments and emails from parents whose children are on the spectrum, whose children have disabilities, chronic health issues, and conditions that are both visible and invisible. They all talked about being silenced by others, not being allowed to express pain, frustration, fear, stress. The constant narrative that they should just be grateful their child is alive (particularly if the child’s birth was traumatic and dangerous or the child’s condition had a grim prognosis). That they had no right to be anything other than an inspiration to parents of children with health privilege. And if they’re not an inspiration, they’re a story used to encourage other parents to “be grateful”.
I see this a lot. It’s isolating enough when you are actually isolated – unable to leave the house at all because of germs and illness or the stares of strangers or the fucking unnecessary comments everywhere you go (“what’s wrong with his breathing? It sounds like he can’t breathe? Should you have him outside in this weather?” – I once had a woman peer into my buggy and say to my son “did mummy really have to drag you out today when you’re so sick? Poor baby!”)
But on top of that actual physical isolation – to be further isolated by being shut down every time you try to talk about what it’s really like for you on this journey? That sucks. And it’s not fair.
And people don’t mean to shut others down – but they do. With careless words. And we all do it – I’ve said way more than my share of shitty things. But I do my best to really listen when I hear what hurts others and make sure I don’t repeat and use words and phrases that I know hurt.
My most hurtful thing that was said to me, that still comes up all the time in my head, and I know the person didn’t mean it the way I took it – but intent isn’t magic – was when I was pregnant with my second. I was asked:
Do you hope it’s not like Eddie?
For a second, I couldn’t even work out what they were trying to say. Of course I want my baby to be like Eddie? Huh? He’s perfect?
And then I realised. Oh, you mean, do I hope my child doesn’t have the same condition he does?
I think I was so numbed by the phrasing that I kind of just hurriedly said something like, it’s not genetic apparently, in any case, we would just deal with whatever happens.
Every now and then I watch my babies play and that comment pops into my head and I think oh gosh I hope so.
I hope Ronnie is bold and brave and kind and generous and strong and compassionate and sweet and gentle. I hope he can’t say “M”s and he says bechanics for mechanics and bachines for machines. I hope he loves twirling. I hope he shakes when he’s excited. I hope he falls over his words when he just can’t wait to tell me something. I hope he gently pats adults and children and says “you OK darling?” when he sees someone upset. I hope he calls me Dear Mama like Eddie does. And calls his dad Dadam. I hope he has his brother’s eclectic dress sense (sometimes). I hope he plays rocket ships and yells out THREE FIFE ZERO. I hope he loves cuddles and snuggles as much as Eddie. I hope he will be his own person but I’ll be so happy if he has Eddie’s bravery and joyous and soft, caring nature. I hope he is described the same way Eddie is by the people who love him:
A precious, fragile but so resilient, wonderous, loving little soul.
Kids with health problems aren’t their health problems.
They’re not their disabilities.
They’re not their conditions.
Or their disorders.
They’re not their speech delays.
They’re not their learning difficulties.
They’re not their inability to focus.
They’re not their feeding tube or their noisy breathing.
They’re whole little people. Who have heaps to offer the world. They’re human beings who hear you when you talk about them and the things “wrong” with them.
There’s nothing wrong with these kids.
***
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Posted on July 19, 2015
Birth
I am a huge fan of birth stories. And I am also a little obsessed with birth videos. I recently watched that freakin phenomenal video of a woman giving birth to a 10 pound baby in the car and it made me think about whether I should write about the birth of my baby AKA The Burrito AKA The Christmas Ham (pink and delicious).
Eddie’s birth, two and a bit years ago, is a bit of a blur. I wish I’d written about it. But I was in such a fog. And then he got sick quickly and everything just disappeared into a stressy haze. I mean, don’t get me wrong, his first year wasn’t just stress – but I lost myself a bit in there.
The baby made me find myself a bit. This blog has made me rediscover myself a lot.
Anyway, about the baby’s birth….I’m not sure where to begin. I suppose I should begin with the absolutely batshit ridiculous expectations I had about his birth. Eddie’s had been relatively straightforward. I stupidly assumed a second baby would be easier than the first. Because Eddie’s was quick – I went into labour on Friday night. Went into hospital Saturday night. Had him Sunday morning – I figured I would basically cough and baby two would come out.
Because I’d managed without an epidural last time, I figured I could do the same second time around and go even crunchier with a home birth. HA HA HA. There’s a big difference between a baby facing the right way, in the right place, that’s only six pounds and a baby that’s facing up, is huge, and isn’t in the right place. I was a massive, insufferable dick throughout my pregnancy – although thankfully I was only a dick in my head. I kept telling myself “Please, this will be a piece of piss. Just chill for a while when you get the first contractions and hang out at home. The baby might even come before the midwife gets here”.
I had images in my head of just gently pushing the baby out (hahahaha gently) and placing him on my chest and then my husband being like “Ok, she’s had the baby” to the midwife by phone. In this fantasy Eddie didn’t even wake up until the morning. He then climbed into bed with us and we all snuggled.
So utterly convinced I was that my birth would be a breeze, that I booked a birth photographer. You know how I said I love birth videos? I LOVE birth photos. You know those ones in a pool where the mother looks all blissed out? I was like – yes, please. I’ll have that photo thanks.
Needless to say, it didn’t go down that way. At 35 weeks I had contractions after seeing the midwife. And they were agony. Leaving the midwife’s office I almost squatted on Dixon Street. Luckily, it’s Wellington, so nobody gave me a second glance. My husband was like hissing “what are you doing? Stop squatting in the street jeeeez!” and then Eddie was squatting next to me saying “whatchoo do dear mama?”
I got into the car and said “I’m having it. Call the midwife!” My husband was like “hold on, we were just in there, how painful is it? Can we just walk back over?”
And I was like:
So we rang the midwife and she told us to head to the hospital and she’d meet us there. On the way I tried not to scream because Eddie was in the car. Eddie kept rubbing my back and saying “Sokay my darling! SOKAY DEAR MAMA! You alright dear mama?” When we got to the labour unit he was quite stressed and when reception asked for my name he said “MAMA” I settled in and the husband took Eddie home. I started to think “This is good. I don’t have to be pregnant anymore”. For some reason I never thought 35 weeks was too early. I had long thought I was a few weeks ahead and had had heaps of scans that suggested the baby was big. I asked to fill the pool and my midwife explained because baby was early I would need to stay in bed. I was distraught by this. Apparently it’s only after 37 weeks that you don’t have to be strapped to a bed. So six hours later, I was actually kind of happy that contractions stopped. I went home. I was put on bedrest. Goal: Make it to 37 weeks.
The next night – contractions started up again. They lasted about four hours at about eight to six minutes apart.
The next night they started up again. This time for about six hours.
It was the same night after night for a week.
I had no idea that this could happen. Eddie’s birth had been straightforward. I’d had a contraction, then another one, they got closer together, then baby.
I had an exam and I was two cms. I did not react well.
I asked for a stretch and sweep and began to Google “How to get a baby out”. I knew I didn’t want an induction, and that since my waters hadn’t broken I wouldn’t get one anyway. So I ate 1500 pineapples, so much curry I never want to eat curry again, had the most joyless sex I’ve ever had in my life (I’m sorry I was so aggressive toward you husband), and walked my street endlessly.
The contractions were awful. I felt so alone – how do you say you’re in labour but you’re not in labour? I got all these comments like “Can’t you just get an induction?” or worse: people assuming I wasn’t in labour because they didn’t know you can be in labour for weeks…
Eddie took to pacing around the house, one hand on his back groaning.
I laugh now, but it was pretty terrible. I threw up constantly, couldn’t pick up Eddie, couldn’t do anything but lay in bed. A walk around the street exhausted me. I couldn’t sleep. I could barely eat.
We ended up back in the delivery suite again a week and a half later but I was only 3cm. I was offered pethidine to help me sleep but instead decided to go home. I was distraught – if I was in this much pain now, I’d never be able to handle actual labour. This baby wasn’t coming.
At 37.5 weeks I was still having contractions all night and part of the day. I picked up a birth pool from a friend on Twitter who was also a midwife. I needed something other than panadol to take the pain away.
I set up the pool in my room in front of the TV and spent seven hours in there and in the shower. My contractions were close together and it was agony. I began screaming and losing it so we called the midwife – “we” as in my husband rang and said “I think the baby is coming or something” and in the background I just emerged from the pool screaming:
The midwife told us to go into the hospital and I had this exchange with the father of my child:
CHANGE YOUR TOP
What? Is it dirty?
CHANGE IT
Why?
I CAN’T HAVE SKULLS IN THE DELIVERRRRAGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
*changes top to a singlet*
WHY ARE YOU WEARING A SINGLET AND A HAT AND SUNGLASSES IT’S NIGHTIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH FFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKK YOoooooooooooooooooOOOOOoooooOOooooouuuuuUUUUUUUUUU!
We got into the car and began driving to the hospital which involved me screaming at him to drive faster and him saying we needed to drive to the speed limit. We hit every light on the way and at one point this guy pulled up next to us eating KFC and he turns and looks at me in the car and I’m like:
He almost dropped his chicken wing. The contractions were so strong and I felt like I had to push. As we entered the hospital car park I basically jumped out of the moving car and screamed at a person trying to open their car “GIVE ME AN EPIDURRAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHH”. They flattened against the side of their car in terror, keys fumbling in trembling hands.
I banged on the glass doors at the hospital entrance screaming at the top of my lungs as my husband sheepishly followed behind me. The bored security officer pressed the button and I lunged inside. “IT’S COMING OUTTAAAARGHHHSHHHHHIIIIIIITTT” I hurried to the lift, I knew where to go as this was my third time in the hospital for this labour. The orderly in the lift looked like a character in a horror movie who is desperately trying to escape a serial killer. He frantically mashed at the lift buttons and tried to make himself as small as possible in the corner of the lift while I screamed “I NEED DRUGS DRUUUUUUUUUGS”.
“Miss I can only push the buttons on the lift” he quivered in fear.
My husband suggested I calm down. I did not take it well.
When I finally got to the labour ward my midwife heard my screaming and grunting and told me she wouldn’t check me. She said if I felt like I needed to push I should push. And I really, really felt like I needed to push. So push I did. As hard as I could. While screaming for drugs.
After an hour or so (who knows really? It felt like 8000 years) she checked me and I was only 4cm. I was devastated. I don’t think I’ve ever been so upset about anything in my entire life. I was sobbing, exhausted. How would I handle active labour if I was only 4cm and in this much agony? It was around 10 at night. I got into the pool and cried. At one point my midwife told me ‘You know this baby is going to come out right?’ and it sounds so bizarre but I really didn’t think the baby was coming out. I actually thought I might be in labour forever. Like it sounds so stupid now, but I really thought I might just be in labour for the rest of my life. I had hoped when I had finally got to hospital and begun to push that it would finally be easy.
I still had the overwhelming urge to push but there was no baby. The baby was posterior and pressing down on an anterior cervical lip (or something I don’t even know but there was something about a cervical lip and it was anterior). He was facing up instead of down. Grinding against my pelvic bone. That was behind my need to push, and also why he wasn’t coming out.
The only upside was that he was never in distress. He was happy as a clam through the whole process. From 35 weeks until his birth at 37.5 weeks.
My midwife was so calm. And the calmness helped me even as I felt totally at sea. I was in AGONY. And felt that the baby just wasn’t coming. I showered for a while but kept grunting and trying to push out the baby. I felt like my spine was being crushed. I just cannot describe the pain. General things I said over the next five hours:
- CUT IT OUT
- PLEASE I NEED DRUGS
- I CAN’T DO IT (the main thing I said)
- I’M DYING PLEASE
- I’M GOING TO DIE
- PLEASE PULL IT OUT PLEASE
- WHY WON’T IT COME OUT??
- HELP ME (I said this heaps)
My midwife was calm and collected. If she was stressed, I didn’t see it. She kept telling me how strong I was and reminding me that not only could I do it, I was doing it. The baby would be born she said. I spent a lot of time apologising to her after yelling at her. I spent a lot of time whimpering that I was dying. My husband was quite pale at this stage, he was in a fair bit of pain from me gripping his arm. But let’s be clear – IT WAS NOTHING LIKE MY PAIN OK. NOT EVEN CLOSE.
I had to push again and so I got into all fours. I pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. I felt absolutely delirious with pain. Eddie’s birth had not been painful like this – the pushing had been a fantastic relief from the contractions. This was beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. I begged for any kind of drugs available. At one point I even said I would take experimental drugs. Just anything – just whatever is left over next door. Just like punch me in the face or give me some plants from outside the hospital. Just like ANYTHING.
My husband stroked my hair and reminded me that my plan was an unmedicated birth so that we could get home as soon as possible to be with Eddie. I told him that I hope he died and went to Hell and then died again just so he could be sent to Hell again because he’s a fucking monster.
For the next little while I pushed and screamed “Is he coming? Is he coming?” The midwife said something about “I’m just going to get my hand and…” I just screamed “PULL IT OUT JUST FUCKING PULL IT OUT” at her.
Now, I would love to say he just came out. But he did not. He DID NOT. I felt his forehead. Then the ridge of his eyebrows. Then his nose. Then his chin. Then his shoulders. Then his arms. Then his bottom. I felt it all. Ring of fire? It was an inferno. The entire room was on fire.
When he was put on my chest I lost it. I sobbed and sobbed. I’ve never felt such relief in my life. Just writing this I’m sobbing. I DID IT. I got him out! My husband kissed my forehead and I stared at my beautiful ginormous nine pound three baby.
He was screaming. He was bruised and red. His head was enormous and swollen and misshapen. I awkwardly asked if his head was going to stay like that. She assured me it wouldn’t.
She told me she was just going to have a look at my lady garden which was now a tornado-destroyed desolate waste land. I hissed at her. YOU BETTER NUMB EVERYTHING FROM THE WAIST DOWN BEFORE YOU TOUCH ME. She prepared a needle and I relaxed into the bed holding my screaming cone-head. “Please sew my vagina up entirely. I will never use it again” I told her.
As I lay there with my legs apart I remembered the lovely birth photographer Jane was there. I’d completely forgotten about her. I quietly said to her “please don’t take photos of my butthole”. She assured me there would be no butthole photos.
My husband gazed adoringly at our little boy. “Wow, he’s perfect” he said. I called my family and told them the wonderful news. Our gorgeous baby was here. We were four now.
We went home a few hours after he was born and climbed into bed together. I felt completely at peace. It was over. Finally. And now the real fun would begin…
My midwife’s words hung in the air “You did wonderfully”. And it was wonderful. A wonderful world for our new baby to be born into.
The sun began to peak through the curtains. We cuddled. Wonderful.
***
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Posted on July 13, 2015
How to make a mum friend
Surely I’m not the only person who finds making mum friends quite difficult?
I struck gold with my ante-natal group and three years on, we are all really close. I have often wondered if it’s rare – I feel like I was really lucky that they all ended up being really intelligent, chilled out, funny, and fun. We are all on to our second babies now and don’t get to hang out nearly as much as I’d like us to due to work and life and illness. But we will always have a special bond because we had all of our boys (yes all boys) together. We now have (almost) all had our second babies together as well – six boys, one more boy on the way, and one little girl.
I have another circle of mum friends that I met online. There are big benefits to meeting mum friends online – you know their politics, general outlook, ideological beliefs etc. BEFORE you get them into your house. I mean sure – I have met a few people online who have ended up being creeps (who hasn’t?) but thankfully I got them out of my life fairly quickly. My circle of online mum friends (who really, are just friends) is my lifeline. I adore them – they’re my best friends. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
I was pretty much the first in my circle of friends to have kids. It’s great that my closest friends are now catching up. But it means my mum friend circles are those two really – antenatal group and friends I first met online.
Trying to meet mums in other ways is often a total failure. Someone will say something about “natural” birth and I’ll be all *lip curl* or they’ll start talking about baby led weaning or cloth nappies and two hours later I will come back and they will still be going so I’ll go on a short holiday and then come back and they’re just winding up and they have a book for me to read. And I just…why is it so hard? I’m not even that picky?
I feel like I have a script for meeting new mums and it’s like speed dating.
It always begins at the swings aye? And the first question from either mum is almost always “how old is yours?” Then there are comments about size of said baby – so big! So small! Testing the waters a little there are comments about “how do you find it with two?”
I always find the conversations so difficult. I feel so anxious all the time. So unsure of how to be cool for other mums or say the right thing or at least not say the wrong thing. After being inside all week I feel like I can’t even make conversation. I mean even at home I’m like “CAN YOU NOT PUT IT IN YOUR MOUTH IF IT ISN’T FOOD. IS IT FOOD? NO. TAKE IT OUT. NOW. FOOD. MOUTH. NO FOOD. NO MOUTH”.
If the other mum starts talking about the weather you know you don’t have a chance. They’re bored. You’re boring. The conversation grinds to a halt. And Eddie is always awkward and refuses to get off the swings so I have to just stand there.
Sometimes if the conversation actually seems to be going somewhere, and I’ve managed to not say something really terrible “yeah definitely my vagina was super sore afterwards” I will tentatively drop vaccination into the mix just to make sure I’m not putted wasted effort in.
I wish I was just better at social activity. Just cool and smooth. Like that mum you see at the park with her latte and she looks really great and she’s surrounded by other mums and they’re all cackling. Heads flung back, beautiful Barbie hair shining in the sun, “OH JANA! YOU’RE TOO MUCH!” And she pulls out a hip flask and tells another amazing story and her perfect kids just sleep perfectly in their double buggy (one girl and one boy) and the buggy is one of those fancy ones that has the super sweet black and white pattern on it.
I mean I have mum friends, I’m not a complete loser. It’s just that all of us are at different stages – studying, working outside the home, that kind of thing. Those that are stay at home mums don’t live near me, so we’re not hanging out at the local park. And winter makes me anxious – there are germs everywhere. People take their kids out when they’re sick. Everyone is coughing. It’s cold. Winter really is a bullshit season.
So where is the anxious mums club? We can all sit around and take turns being Janas. Have our moment in the sun. We can forgive each other for having verbal rota-virus (do you know I once said to a person I only just met that I once puked in bed and slept in it because I was too sick to move. Who says that to someone? Over lunch? OMG I just told all of you three people reading this. What is wrong with me???).
Where was I – we would forgive short attention spans and inability to keep on topic, tangents and stories that don’t go anywhere.
We can just be casual mum friends who txt and say ‘going to the park want to come?’ or ‘mums and bubs movie at midday – keen?’ I have friends who aren’t mums that I can do this with, so I just wish I had more mum friends, with kids the same age, who I can do this with.
And we can just see a movie. Or hang out by the swings. And not talk forever about boring “parenting philosophies” or whose child is sleeping through the night or on solids or whose birth was the most natural (it was Jana’s – she gave birth in a field with a paleo string quartet playing).
Maybe – the trick to finding the right mum friend is to approach it like dating. Have a list of things that are non-negotiable. So here are mine. And I want to know yours. Then we can match each other up.
1) Must love modern medicine and vaccination
My closest dearest mum friends know what I’ve been through with my son. They know modern medicine saved him. And they know the importance of vaccination.
2) Must not talk about super foods. Particularly chia seeds. And quinoa. Preferably not able to even pronounce quinoa.
For a really long time I thought it was a fish and I called in Kwin-oh-ah. The fact that so many people never corrected me really cranks my crank. Fuck quinoa. And super foods. And conversations about food that aren’t cake-related.
3) Likes beefcakes
I would like my mum friend to be someone who isn’t unnerved by my obsession with The Rock, Idris Elba, Thor, and recently a return to my fantasies – Joe Manganiello. Also, the captain of the Samoa rugby team. And Roman Reigns. If this obsession can’t be matched, I would at least like someone who enjoys spending a portion of their time talking about crushes.
4) Their children must be terrible sleepers
I just want to be with my people.
5) No diet talk
I don’t want to feel bad about how I look. Particularly because I don’t feel bad about how I look. Despite the fact that I think society wants me to feel bad about how I look.
6) Wine and coffee – solid relationship needed
Yeah, I feel like my great loves in life are wine and coffee (and my kids and husband I suppose after wine and coffee). So if we have that in common that’s going to be helpful.
7) Good politics
You don’t have to agree with everything I do. But you kind of do.
8) Must not mind lists ending at 8.
It’s all a bit silly I know. I think it’s just winter. It makes you feel isolated. It’s too cold to go out. The kids are always sick. When your child is finally better, your mum friend’s child is sick. So you just never get to hang. It sucks. Maybe I’m just being an emo.
But today I did meet a mum by the swing. I dropped a comment about vaccination and she said there should be a law requiring people to vaccinate. And then I dropped an F bomb just to see what would happen and she didn’t even flinch. And then she said her almost three year old still wakes up. So…wish me luck?
How long do I wait before I call her?!?!
***
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Posted on July 9, 2015
Guest Post: My mother’s hands
This guest post was written by one of my dearest friends KVN. I absolutely adore her and can’t imagine my life without her. This post is about her parenting journey with her daughter. KVN is an incredible mother – this post will break your heart, but this kind of honesty is so needed. We need to share these stories and make sure parents know they’re not alone. Arohanui to all of the parents out there who know this pain.
I am sitting in a blue, vinyl lazyboy staring at my dry, cracked hands. The lazyboy is set upon a bulky wooden frame, set upon discordant castor wheels. The lever propels the footrest up at a badly lopsided angle and I cannot rest my legs without them slipping off the side. I am sitting in this lazyboy with my dry, cracked hands on my knees. These look like the hands of someone much older, who has worked too hard. They look like my mum’s hands. I notice all of these things.
The heavily bleached blankets that bandage my child in to the bed next to me fall on the floor. She squirms and I launch myself up and pump sanitizer all over my hands and arms. I rub the excess on my neck. I pick up my sweaty, weak, groaning child and climb back into the lazyboy where she nestles under my chin, my hands smoothing her hair.
I think about how easy this is now. The familiarity of being in hospital. The jokes we always make with the nurses about how it’s like being on holiday at a resort, every time they ask us if we need anything. Room-service with a smile. And canullas and respiration monitors and vials and vials of blood. I think about how easy the build up is. How the previous few nights at home I’ve laid awake for hours with a pain building in my chest, waiting for the fever or rash or cough that will send us to the hospital. In spite of my anxiety I have performed myself calmly, I have gone running each day, I have eaten well-balanced meals and looked after myself, I have not yelled or sworn or gone awol. These are all healthy habits my doctor informs me, each time he writes out my quarterly prescription for antidepressants.
I notice this calm too. When my child cries I wait a moment too long. It is during this pause when I jump start myself, becoming warm and loving and strong. The truth is during times like this I am numb. I have compartmentalised my child’s illness so that I can cope. I file my knowledge about this chronic disease carefully in my memory; well filed so that I can access it when I need to cite studies and peer reviewed articles, but deep enough so that I can forget it’s existence day to day. I joke with the registrars and make cakes for our consultants. I celebrate Rare Disease Day as if it’s something to celebrate. I heartily join in with friends, making lifelong plans for our children’s futures, because the alternative is too horrible. When people ask about her diagnosis I give them the sanitized version about how things will definitely get easier. People don’t want to hear about sickness, especially not unsolvable sickness in children. What they want is inspiration.
The issue of my hands. My mum, who has dry, cracked hands of her own, tells me I should moisturise, moisturise, moisturise. She doesn’t do this herself, because she’s too busy taking care of her own grownup children and other people’s children too. The day I told her about the diagnosis she cried into the phone, and was on a plane towards us the next day. She has raised my chronically ill sister, and her grief that I would now have to go through what she goes through is something else for us both to compartmentalize. She is one person who understands, and one person it is too painful to talk to about this. My mum is calm like me.
I don’t have time to moisturise my hands. Even when I’m sitting alone in that sticky, wobbly chair I am busy. I am busy thinking the worst thoughts, practicing not falling apart if they happen. I think the best thoughts too, for balance, I tell myself. I coach myself through them, encouraging and cheering, because often it feels most terrifying to hope and dream.
Posted on July 7, 2015
Karakia
My precious babies
When the sun shines let it warm your skin
Your heart is warm
Your home is warm
When it is cold know you can find warmth in my arms
I will be your shelter
I will help you build a shelter for when I’m not here
You have such strength my little ones
I believe you will do amazing things
I know this
Because I’m your mother and your mother knows things
Dance
Be anything you want to be
I will be here no matter what
And you can be
a princess
a ballerina
a digger driver
a caterpillar in a cocoon
You can be
brave
and bold
and bright
And when the sun shines I will play with you in the garden
And when it rains we can stay inside
because it’s ok to not like the rain my sweet babies
Everything will be ok
The sun will always shine again
Did you eat your matchbox car?
Oh my God why would you do that?
How did you even do that?
No I’m not angry.
But don’t eat your cars. Jesus.
***
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Posted on June 29, 2015
Lessons from children
A lot of what we do as parents is teaching. And I see a real focus on that in society – you need to teach, they need to learn. But I see very little about how much our children teach us, how much we can learn from them.
I have learned so much from my children. It seems like every day my son is teaching me some new lesson, he’s teaching me how to see the world a different way. Quite frankly, a better way.
I get kind of bummed at how people treat children. I’ve written about it before. One of the things that annoys me is the constant “teaching” that children have to deal with. And how adults often don’t ever consider that they could learn just as much (if not more) from children as children can from them.
To explain that with just one micro-aggression: I really hate it when people spend all their time correcting children. I loathe adults who correct adults. You know, those people who pompously say “It’s to whom, not to who” or “you mean fewer not less” like the world will implode because someone used the wrong term in an every day conversation. As if language doesn’t ever evolve. As if the mistakes we make are more important than the fact that we are trying to communicate with each other as people. It’s just about making sure everyone knows your status. You’re a clever person. And being clever is important apparently. It puts you ahead of me. Ahead of others. You get to be at the top of the pile, to whoming and fewering everyone you come into contact with so that they remember you’re just so clever.
When people do it to children – it irritates me so much. And they do it all the time. Eddie used to confuse words like “hot” and “cold” and “up” and “down”. He would say ‘Can put me up?’ instead of ‘can you put me down’. It was clear what he was saying, but people always said NO YOU MEAN PICK ME UP. PICK ME UP NOT PUT ME DOWN. Never mind that he meant put me down. It was condescending and patronising and they weren’t even listening to him. And here’s the thing – people think you can’t be condescending or patronising to kids. They think that’s just not possible. As if children are some subset of humanity immune to being talked down to, unworthy of basic respect.
This isn’t about talking to children like they’re adults. It’s about giving them some credit because they’re learning a damn language and they’re learning to communicate (all at the same time!) It’s like when some people who only speak English speak to someone whose first language isn’t English – THEY SPEAK LOUDER. As if yelling will somehow work. Because if you can’t understand what someone is saying, surely yelling in their face will help? Right?
Children are learning how to function in a new world. There’s all this random stuff going on that they have no idea about. Every day I will say something and then catch myself and think – oh wow, he doesn’t know what that is! He saw an emu at the zoo and I could *see* his internal monologue like OH OH NO NO NO NO WHAT IS THAT THING?!?!? IS IT A BIRD?!?! IS IT A GIRAFFE?!?! THE NECK IS LONG BUT IT HAS FEATHERS?!? IT LOOKS LIKE A DINOSAUR?!?! IS IT GOING TO EAT ME?!?! WHAT THE HELL IS IT?!?! IS IT DANGEROUS?!?! IT LOOKS TERRIFYING!?! Can you imagine that? Cruising along and seeing a creature you’ve never seen before and it’s just right there and you don’t know what it’s called or what it is? And you’re tiny? That’s the shit kids are grappling with daily. Except it’s not just an emu it’s tin foil or sand or earrings.
When Eddie bursts into tears when he hears a hand dryer it takes him a full minute to truly believe me when I say hand dryers can’t hurt him. Can you even comprehend what it must be like to be afraid of hand dryers? To not have the cognitive ability to wrap your head around their actual use? To you they’re just boxed death attached to a wall that will go off at any time?
And yet – some people feel they just have to say to toddlers all the time “No it’s 1 2 3 4 5. Not 1 3 4 5” as if they’re never going to ever be able to count unless they’re corrected when they’re two years old. Or “It’s a clothes LINE not a close lion” because so many adults can’t say clothes line. Or “You said princess but you meant prince” – leaving aside the fact that you’re clearly trying to say boys can’t be princesses, what if he really just means princess? When have you ever said princess and meant prince? Never? So maybe consider that he knows exactly what he’s saying and what he’s saying is what he means?
You can actually almost see people closing themselves off to children in this way. My son stutters a bit when he’s excited or when he’s trying to get a word out and he doesn’t know what the word is. I see people not even bother to wait to hear what he’s trying to say. As if they’re so rushed and busy they can’t wait a second to hear him, to let him finish his sentence. It’s because they’ve decided what he has to say is unimportant.
Because children can’t teach us anything.
Well with that attitude these smart and clever and important people are losing out. Because kids are giving out gems for free! Kids are way smart. It’s just not necessarily the kind of smart that people value. That ‘I’m clever, you’re not, which means you’re at the bottom, and I’m on top’ kind of smart that has so much social currency.
Children are smart about life. About what matters. About treating people as they should be treated. To children, there is no Us and Them.
To my son there are about three or four jobs that are the greatest jobs there are available. Garbage man, digger man, petrol man, Bunnings man. As a grumpy old feminist it does my head in a bit to hear everything as man. But I’m not going to correct him. I’m just going to make sure that when I talk about these roles it’s “people who collect garbage” not garbage men. Every time he talks to anyone who has any of these jobs (a trip to Bunnings takes a really long time because he has to talk to every worker there) he simply cannot believe that they have the mind-blowing good fortune to be able to wake up every morning and do what they do. If he finds out we went to the petrol station without him we hear about it for weeks.
When he found out his dad worked at a petrol station he could hardly speak. His dad was already his hero and now he finds out he worked in a petrol station? Dear god, is there nothing this man can’t do??
And yet – my husband has had numerous people (many, many, many people) make comments to his face about how petrol station workers are morons. Society pumps out (yes pumps out) classist shit about petrol stations 24-7: Go to school or you’ll end up working at a petrol station. Forget about the bullies, they’ll be pumping your gas some day. Better work hard or one day you’ll end up working at a BP.
All of my husband’s jobs have been blue collar. He has heard people talking about their gardener and saying that they’re thick as two bricks and another person will chime in with “well what do you expect he’s a gardener?” or how road workers are lazy “they were there all day and didn’t even move” (umm it’s their job dickwad). Often with a bit of fun racism thrown in as well. People don’t think about how quick they are to (incorrectly I might add) separate people into smart and dumb. As if you can’t be intelligent if you have a particular job that doesn’t involve academic skills. Or you can’t find joy in a job like collecting garbage. Or you’re not doing a job correctly, as decided by someone who has never done that job! The point they’re making is that these jobs are low value and the people aren’t of value either. When nothing could be further from the truth.
Really, the sad people are those who have to put down people who work in services they can’t live without in order to feel just a little bit OK with themselves.
Eddie once got so excited that a man in a digger showed him how to use the controls that he burst into tears. He was so overcome at how wonderful a digger was that he lost it.
I can’t figure out what age people get to when they stop thinking “diggers are awesome and the people driving them are amazing and I’m so happy to see one I can’t control my emotions” and start thinking “what a dumbass that person is they drive a digger”.
Now, I’m not suggesting we all start tearing up over those mini-cranes at Bunnings. But maybe we could do better than to consider the world through our kids eyes and think about why they see life the way they do. And wonder, maybe that’s the way we should be operating. Not always rushing to insist we’re smarter. We know more. There’s them and us and we’re better.
Maybe we could try learning instead of always insisting we’re the teachers.
***
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Posted on June 18, 2015
Not even close to perfect
I managed to get both kids to sleep at the same time today. It’s difficult to describe just how great I felt at this momentous achievement. I am guessing (obviously, I mean look at me) that it feels exactly the same when you reach the summit of Mount Everest. Euphoric. Slightly out of breath. Sweaty.
I was so smug about it I felt like I deserved a glass of wine – but I didn’t have one since it was only 1pm and even though it has been a hard week I can’t quite justify 1pm wine. Maybe tomorrow.
So instead of wine I went on Facebook which is nowhere near as satisfying as wine. I was scrolling through and I saw this:
God give me strength. As if any child playing outside looks like that. And the actual message here – Just eff off mate. You don’t have to be making memories every fucking second of every fucking day. So you don’t have TV, awesome. I didn’t have TV for the first 10 months. Then I got it and I can’t even put into words how much better my life is. Sometimes I see articles about people who marry appliances and for a second I look at my TV and think…well…
I digress (really, I’m sorry if you got a mental image then).
Look, you’re clearly a better mother than I. You win. I’m not even interested in playing because I would lose my damn mind if I didn’t have television to entertain my toddler for half an hour while I do eight loads of washing and feed my baby. Yes, there are other ways I could keep him occupied, but TV works best. So that’s what I do.
Just going to keep scrolling and…are..you…serious…right…now?
Well I definitely remember being drunk as all Hell playing Crash Bandicoot when I was 17 so I just don’t agree with that at all.
A few minutes? That’s all I need to give them? Why didn’t someone tell me sooner. I have been spending all day with the little *ahem* angels. I’ve been *grits teeth* respectfully parenting for every single second, of every minute, or every hour, of every day. And trust me, I’ve felt every minute.
Deep breath. Keep scrolling.
I’ve got to be grateful for stretch marks now?
Where does it end?
What is the purpose of these damn trolling Pinterest meme things? If they’re not to make you feel like shit or feel sanctimonious then they’re failing. Because that’s literally the only two reactions you can have to these things.
Like if you see that one and say ‘Yeah! Tiger Stripes! I earned these! I’m grateful every second of every day and I’m a good person!’ cool. You do you. More power to you.
And also, I seriously believe loving your body can be a revolutionary act. That’s not my point here.
When I read it I’m like – you know what? I’m a feminist. I am all about body positivity. I rocked a bikini when I was preggo. And some days I hate my body. I loathe it. I try really, really hard to feel good about how I look after two kids. But it’s really hard. Some days I really hate my body. And you know what – I sometimes resent my kids because my body feels and looks so ruined some days. There, I said it. I’m clearly a monster. I should take my children to the firehouse and drop them off so someone with higher self esteem than me can take them. That’ll teach me.
I can’t even. I tried to even. And I couldn’t even even.
Can we please inject some reality into these? Good god. You can be you. You can be an imperfect parent. You don’t have to be a Pinterest mum who does everything right all of the time. I lose my shit sometimes (often) and yell at my husband. I say sorry. Our marriage is fine.
I get so damn frustrated with my son when he absolutely refuses to change out of a pair of shorts when it’s two degrees outside and we miss the bus and the whole day feels ruined. It’s OK to get frustrated sometimes! My son is seeing that mama is a real person who gets tired and frustrated some times. He also sees that mama still loves him because this is just life – people get upset. It doesn’t mean they don’t care!
It’s OK to call your baby a little asshole under your breath when it’s 3am and they’ve woken up for the fifteenth time and you are totally exhausted. You’re still getting up and cuddling them, feeding them, loving them. You’re allowed to be shitty about not getting sleep. You’re not allowed to put the Moses basket outside and let neighbourhood cats raise your child.
It’s alright to throw your kids at your partner as soon as they walk through the door after a day of work. You’re allowed to have bad days. People have bad days at work, you’re allowed to have bad days because you’re working too. It’s just that your employers are tiny tyrants who won’t eat fruit.
You’re not a bad parent because you put on TV or let your kid play on the iPad or the computer or the playstation or if you don’t make it outside for four days because the weather is shit and YOU ARE JUST TIRED. Being tired doesn’t make you a bad parent. A bit of “screen time” *vom* won’t kill your kid. You’re a grown ass adult – you know what moderation is.
I’m not a great parent every minute of every day. Sometimes I’m only an adequate parent for an entire day. A week. Other times I ace that shit and when both kids are asleep at the end of the day I think ‘damn, I’m good at this!’ But you know what the truth is – kids don’t need perfect parents. They just need people who love them to look after them and help them grow. Having a TV, hating your stretchmarks sometimes, being exhausted – that’s OK. These are not inherently bad things. They definitely don’t make you a bad parent.
I just want permission to be the parent I am. Tired but trying. Desperately in love with my kids. Failing often but never intentionally. I am teaching my children, but they’re also teaching me. We’re a work in progress and that’s OK.
So I’m just going to sneakily paint Facebook with my own messages. The Not Perfect And Actually OK With That edition of Pinterest parenting crap.
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Posted on June 10, 2015
They listened
I’ve sat on this blog post for a while now. One thing I don’t ever, ever, EVER want to do here is make anyone feel judged or shitty. We all have different experiences in parenting, and I know that sometimes when I’ve been exhausted and feeling overwhelmed I’ve read things online that have made me cry and feel like the shittiest mother ever. Sometimes I think it’s intentional – people post without caring about how it will hurt, or they post horrible things for clicks, or they’re like actually mean jerks. But often I think it’s unintentional, just badly worded, or the person hasn’t quite said what they meant to say – or maybe I didn’t get it because I read it with all of my hurt and sadness and feelings and experiences sitting on my heavy, tired shoulders. And that’s ok and not my fault or their fault or anyone’s fault. So I don’t know where I’m going with this – I guess I’m saying that after re-reading and editing and reading and editing I’ve decided to post this. I do not want to minimise anyone’s experiences – this is just my truth and I want to say it. I think the most important thing (the TL:DR version) is that we must feel supported in the choices we make about how we feed our children. It’s important. Really, truly important. Thank you for reading.
Breastfeeding Nazis. Nipple Nazis. Breastapo. Breast feeding police. Psychos. Smug earth mother bitches. Sanctimummys. Bullies. Anti-Formula fanatics. Did you hear the one about that mother whose baby died because she’d been BRAINWASHED by lactation consultants? They’re mum bashing do-gooders. They hate formula. They hate women. They should get rid of Le Leche League. They’re a bunch of dangerous hippies.
That’s just a sample of what people say about lactation consultants on your average article about breast feeding in New Zealand.
Well, here’s what I have to say about them – they listened to me. They heard me. When I felt desperately alone – they were there for me. They empowered me. They made me feel strong. They wiped away my tears. They made me feel like I’m a good mother and I should be proud of myself. They made me feel like I mattered too. That I could trust myself as a mother. They were there when I felt like nobody else was there.
I always thought breast feeding would be easy. I had always wanted to breast feed. I tried so very hard with my first born. But I was too scared to ask for help. I’d been told by absolutely everyone that lactation consultants would yell at me. They’re anti formula I was told. They’re judgemental. I didn’t ask for help because I was afraid of them.
While my oldest son was in hospital I tried to advocate for myself and for him. I wanted to keep breast feeding I told the doctors and nurses and registrars and well-meaning family. I kept being told my milk was the problem. In my head I felt that couldn’t be right. Why couldn’t I just give him expressed breast milk in a bottle? Why did it have to be formula? Alone and utterly exhausted and emotionally ruined I gave him formula at 3am in hospital. I weaned in agony in a children’s ward on my own. Every time a child near me cried my breasts did too. I was never able to comfort him at the breast again. I remember sobbing and asking a nurse “How do I stop the milk?” she just said “we can’t give you anything” and walked off. Another said “There’s nothing wrong with formula for goodness sake!” I’d never, ever suggested that there was anything wrong with formula. I got mastitis in both breasts while trying to look after my desperately ill child.
I’m not anti-formula. I formula fed my son. I am very grateful for formula. But I will never be thankful for the way I was railroaded into giving up on breast feeding. It really hurt me. And for a long time I swallowed that hurt because when I tried to voice it people jumped down my throat – don’t you think you’ve got bigger things to worry about? There’s nothing wrong with formula. Your son gained weight. Isn’t he the priority? Shouldn’t you put your son first? Actually formula is better than breast milk because you know what’s in formula. Who cares how you feed your baby. Get a grip. You should have really started him on formula earlier. All that matters is that your son is healthy. You’re being a bit dramatic aren’t you?
I felt silenced at every turn. I didn’t dare express how I felt. I knew how I should feel – I should know that what I wanted wasn’t important. That my instincts were wrong. That wanting to breast feed was selfish if I couldn’t do it immediately without any hassles. Sick children should be given formula. Breast milk is too unreliable. It was irresponsible, even dangerous, definitely self-absorbed and narcissistic, to want to breast feed if it was difficult or if my child had health problems. I was anti-formula and judgemental of mothers who used formula if I didn’t use it when I was told to. Breast feeding was just a way to feed your child – it had no other worth. As such it didn’t matter how you fed, just feed – but with formula.
Even now, two and a half years on, I find it so hard to trust my own feelings because of the gaslighting and stress of it all.
When my second son was born I was absolutely determined that I would make the choice as to whether I breast fed or not. I wouldn’t let anyone else take that choice from me.
The first people to listen to me were my midwives. One of my midwives is training to be a lactation consultant. In tears I told her about my weaning the first time. She listened. She never called me dramatic or told me off for the feelings I had. She held my hand.
I left the hospital a few hours after my second was born and she came over to help me with my latch. She then came over again a few days later. She kept texting me and sending me online messages to trouble shoot the problems I was having. She did all of this voluntarily.
Being a midwife is an exhausting job – long hours and emotionally it requires huge resilience. I am astounded still that on her days off she took the time to visit me to help me feed.
I messaged her at 2am when my son was recently in hospital and I was again in a vulnerable position with formula being offered at every possible opportunity. She immediately responded. She sent me love and encouragement and said she would come to the hospital to help me.
What a Nazi.
When my son was two months old I went to the Newtown Breastfeeding Support Clinic. I walked in and immediately started sobbing. The volunteer there gave me a glass of water and a hug – she listened to me. Another volunteer entertained my toddler while they helped me with the pain I was having in one of my breasts. I felt completely safe in that hall. Surrounded by other mums struggling through like I was.
Every single week these women gather and sit in a hall and help mums breast feed. Voluntarily. They give up those hours with their children to help us with our children.
Bullies right?
Those lactation consultants kept emailing me to make sure I was ok – physically and emotionally. Not once did they pressure me to breast feed or bottle feed. I was given help with the pain and told they could give me help with weaning if I chose to do that. They discussed what could be the reason I was having pain and kept in close contact with me.
Smug right? Anti-formula fanatics. Totally.
But Le Leche League are the worst aren’t they?
In agony one afternoon I called a number on the Le Leche League website. A woman answered. I could hear her children in the background. I was completely hysterical. I could barely get words out. She told me to take deep breaths and she calmed me down enough to get details from me. This volunteer, a stranger, offered to come to me if I needed immediate help. She encouraged me to contact my husband and get him to come home and take me to my GP. This might all sound melodramatic to you but if you’re surviving on no sleep, and you’re in extreme pain, and you’re overwhelmed – it’s impossible to think straight.
This woman voluntarily takes calls from sobbing mothers day in and day out and talks them off ledges.
I ended up in A&E where a doctor gave me tramadol. I was a mess on it. I was told by almost everyone to just stop breast feeding. I know why. I know it is well-meaning. I know I am stubborn. But it was so hard to hear that.
I was never told to stop or keep going by lactation consultants. I was never dismissively told “happy mum happy baby!” as if wanting to breast feed was a terrible thing to do to my child. I was never told ‘you don’t have to breast feed you know’ or ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering’ or ‘it’s not compulsory’ as if I was a complete moron who doesn’t know her own mind.
I wasn’t ever pressured by anyone to breast feed.
I wanted to.
Desperately.
The only time I was ever given permission to feel this way was when I was around lactation consultants.
This post is mainly just a post about my appreciation for them. I managed to get through my son’s hospital stay without stopping breast feeding. I am proud of myself for that. I trusted my gut and he gained weight on breast milk. I knew he would. I know my milk is working well for him. But it has taken me a long time to trust myself. And I trust myself because of them.
Now, I feed on one side as the other boob is some weird cosmic mess that is super painful. But I feed! I did it! I am immensely proud of myself. I feel like it’s a big achievement. Because it was so painful. So difficult. And I kept going. And I did what I thought was best for me and my son. And it worked!
I now breast feed without pain. My son is pink and fat like a delicious Christmas ham.
I could not have done it without lactation consultants. They protected me. Supported me. Comforted me.
More than anything they listened to me. And here I am – finally, four months on, feeding my baby easily.
I got to heal myself and that matters.
So I guess this is one of those posts that doesn’t really have a message – except maybe this: I’m not going to buy into the narrative that lactation consultants are monsters. If you need help with breast feeding then go to them! Your feelings matter. A lot of women can’t breast feed. But a lot can if they’re given support and help and they’re listened to. And they should be listened to.
And somebody will listen. I’m so incredibly grateful that so many women block out the horrific abuse they get on every article about their profession, every thread online, in mum groups, on Twitter, on Facebook, at coffee groups – everywhere – to voluntarily listen every day to women like me who need help.
***
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Posted on June 5, 2015
There are lovely words
I’m in hospital with my son. We have been here all week. I have been too tired to write a coherent blog post but my brain is still a jumble of words. I have written bits and pieces over the last few days. Here are some feelings. Some things I’ve been thinking. Not particularly eloquent, but I wanted to put them out there anyway.
There are some lovely words.
Ya’aburnee is a word commonly used in Lebanon, it is Arabic, and it is difficult to translate. It is the wish that you will die before the one you love. Simply: You bury me.
Unsurprisingly, it is a sentiment that lives mostly in the hearts of mothers. I have watched my two babies fragile in their hospital beds, fighting for breath, too many times now. Each time Ya’aburnee escapes from my lips as a whisper, a fervent prayer.
It is the same every time – when my babies are at rest, their chests still straining but their eyes closed, I too close my eyes. I picture them at peace and content with loved ones, partners, children, grandchildren, friends, cuddles, kisses, travel, wine, cheese, trampolines, laughter, happy tears, celebrations. I picture them proud watching recitals, performances, gigs, shows, races – karate, swimming, guitar, ballet? I picture them at graduations, awards, writing CVs, creating art. I picture them with a faceless love by their side who brings them as much joy as their father brings me. And I imagine them saying “your Nanna used to say…” to their grown children in remembrance of me. And even though I’m gone, they’re not broken by my absence. They have their own beautiful lives now. And they look at their babies and whisper ya’aburnee.
If a woman’s work is never done a mother is never allowed to rest. I am told to rest. To sleep. To “have a cup of tea”. I hate tea. It tastes like dirt. I am fuelled by coffee.
I am anchored to my son’s cot. I am a lumbering ship. Slow. Not in the best condition really. But determined. I need things to be repeated, I don’t understand what the doctors say to me the first time around. I cry in private. It is too hard to rest. When I sleep it is through sheer force. My body drags me down into the ground and it’s dark and cool and then a cry launches me up. My body acts before my brain does. I am here, it’s ok, I am here. I will rest later.
My second boy came into the world screaming. His face was a deep purple. He was nine pounds and three ounces and he was born angry, screaming at the sky. I love that fight in him. His labour was long, far too long. He fought to be here, to be heard, and he fights to stay here. He seems so resilient even as he struggles. I did not have drugs during his labour because I did not want to be away from my Eddie overnight. It was agony. I felt like my pain could crack the sky. But it wasn’t as painful as being away from my Eddie for so many days now. My arms feel empty. I long to kiss his forehead. To push his dirty blonde hair from his face. To hear his incessant chatter. The ward even with the crying, the constant alarms, the yelling, the sound of so much marching past our door, sounds too quiet without his relentless commentary. I saw him briefly and he said to me “you ok my darling? My dear mama?” He is so compassionate. He is a born mother. A study in care and empathy.
Missing someone even when you know they’re close and not gone, can feel like physical pain. I just know I never want to be apart from my babies.
This place is misery. Surely, there is no sadder more isolated place than the children’s ward in a hospital. Mothers rock even when their babies aren’t in their arms. Fathers have red ringed eyes. Their shoulders are tense. Their footsteps are the heaviest. Nurses are patient but parents are quick to anger. There is so much crying, screeching, babies in pain – but I think the worst cry is the lonely, desperate crying in the night of parents who just want their babies to be better. Torture is not being able to fix your baby. To not be able to hold them because of tubes and monitors and chords like delicate ropes that feel like they’re strangling you. To stand with teeth clenched, nails digging into your arms, as strangers work, speaking a language you don’t understand, too busy to translate, on your precious baby – it is some specific type of Hell. But there is so much humanity here too. The doctor who gently sings a lullaby to your baby as he tries to get a line in. The nurse who gets you a hot chocolate just because you look like you need one. The texts and tweets and calls and financial support because Heaven knows nothing is more terrifying that not being able to pay your bills when you’re in here. The man at the coffee stand who remembers your order and starts making it so you don’t have to speak through tears. The other parents who nod and say “need anything?” No energy for themselves but they are machines with one setting – to care for their babies, and anyone else who needs it right now. Because we share this Hell together.
I will get to leave. My baby will be ok. But some won’t. And I weep for them. Nobody should ever have to bury their child. Every time I leave hospital I have a renewed dedication to frantic, compulsory empathy and compassion for others. The world is too mean too often. We have to be kinder. Always. Gentle. Always. Because some people never get to leave here.
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Posted on May 27, 2015
Maybe tomorrow
I am nearing my 30th birthday and it has made me question a lot of things. At 2am, while writing blog posts in my head, and gritting my teeth through another painful feed, and gazing at my beautiful baby, I thought – what do I want most of all?
I realised I want two things in this life.
I want to be a really good mum.
I want my children to always feel loved, to always feel safe, to always know that there is nothing they can do that will change how much I love them, and that they are never responsible for my happiness. I want them to know that they don’t have to perform for my love. That they don’t have to do anything to keep their precious place as my beloved children.
I want to be a good partner.
None of this good-wife-1950s-throwback BS, but I want my husband to know that I love him, that I appreciate him (gosh, I really hope he knows how much I appreciate him). I want him to know that every day I choose him as my partner, my friend, my teacher, my lover (well shit that’s not every day, but you know what I mean), and my trusted companion through everything. I want him to know that I really love our life together. That the last ummm more than a decade (I can never remember how long it has been) has been amazing. And that I am grateful for everything we have given each other – obviously, most of all I’m grateful we are parents together.
So clearly, I can tell my kids and my partner all of these things. And I do. It’s kind of a running joke that I’m the “I love you!!” person in our house. I try not to get all scary on them with the intensity of my love for them. I don’t want to accidentally swing into delusional, terrifying mothering – It’s a fine line between Molly Weasley and Cersei Lannister.
MUM STAAAHHHP!
But it takes more than just saying it. Actions speak louder than words and bla bla bla.I need to show it.
I try, I really do, to be a good parent and partner each day. But the thing is – I’m not.
There are days I fall really short of this goal. I get all shitty that my two year old won’t eat just one bloody bite of food. Or that he keeps leaning out of the bloody buggy. Or that some days he whines and moans and whines and moans and I can’t even understand him because his voice is so high-pitched with that awful toddler moan. I get annoyed at the baby for clamping down on my nipples and yanking his head away with my nipple still in his mouth. I get shitty at him for refusing to settle. He’s tired. I’m tired. He’s fed. He’s dry. Go the fuck to sleep. I seethe at my partner when he does stuff like pouring my expressed breast milk down the sink because he thought it was old (he did this two months ago, and I still feel super emotional about it). It annoys me that he gets annoyed at me for not wiping down the bench.
There are microagressions. Many, many microaggressions.
I once got so frustrated with my son that I said ‘fine, do whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care’ and he said ‘Eddie WILL do fuck wanna wan mama’ and we laughed. A lot. And then I said “Don’t tell your dad” and I gave him a lollipop and an Easter egg for lunch. Yes, a lollipop and an Easter egg. And that’s all he ate the whole day.
And I’m starting to think that actually that’s OK.
Because parenting and partnering is like that. There are days where you suck at it. And there are days where you compromise and the compromises aren’t even good ones. And yes, I swear at my kids sometimes. And I feel really guilty.
But then, I get so into feeling guilty that I don’t realise that it’s a whole new day tomorrow. And I have a whole new day to try to do better. And I don’t want to get all hashtag blessed on you but – I don’t want to waste days feeling guilty when I’m so lucky to have these days with my family.
So when it’s 2am and I know I had moments where I was not a good parent the day before I try to tell myself that moments of not good parenting doesn’t make me a bad parent. Moments of anger, frustration, even rage at my partner doesn’t make our marriage a bad one. Our partnership isn’t flawed. We’re all tired. And we’re all doing the best that we can. My children aren’t going to grow up to be serial killers (hopefully) because I told my oldest I would leave him at the bus stop if he didn’t keep his hands in the buggy.
Because tomorrow, today – I can be better. I can respectfully explain to my son why he needs to keep his hands inside the buggy instead of snapping. I can spend more time convincing him that a kiwifruit won’t kill him, that a sandwich is good for his body. I can take a deep breath and count to 10 before yelling. I can get my husband a cold drink and remember he’s had a long day too when he gets home. I can let go the fact that he poured that milk down the drain.
Because I’m not perfect. And I want my kids to see that it’s OK to not be perfect. As long as there’s love in this home it can be an imperfect home. As long as we are trying, it’ll be OK. We will have good days and bad days. We will be good to each other and appreciate that some times we snap at each other and that’s OK – as long as we keep trying. Trying every day to do a little better.
Each day, I can work toward my goals of being a good parent and a good partner. And I will fail some days. But that’s OK. These goals aren’t just boxes to tick. They’ll be my never-ending aims. And they’re examples for my children.
And I’ve got tomorrow if today doesn’t work out.
**
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