The minute you are pregnant, you are assaulted with advice and information. You read, you absorb, you learn the facts, yet it is impossible to translate the words on the page to a reality you can’t quite grasp. So the shock of childbirth and childrearing hits you like an avalanche, and can leave you reeling in alarm. All those lovely pictures of women in books cradling happy newborns bear no relation whatsoever to the wailing creature beside you and the Wild Woman of the West staring back in the mirror. There is so much left unsaid by the books, so much left for you to find out for yourself. So here it is. In black and white. Read it if you dare. The truth from one who knows.
Let me give you an example of what the books don’t tell you. Hell is sharing a room with five newborn babies, and their pained mothers. Tortured hell is trying to sleep in a room with five babies after 48 hours of labour and an emergency c-section. Initially unable to get out of bed because of stitches and tubes, the final insult is that you can’t even throw a pillow at the woman snoring beside you.
A symphony of embattled cries – from the Squeakers to the Squealers – can all be captured, at full volume, on a night in a maternity ward. And would they be considerate enough to all follow the same routine? Of course not. Squeaker starts first, lighting up his tune of wailing, wounded animal, finally settling after 15 minutes of stressed hushes from mum. A few moments silence where a cruel interval of sleep finally takes hold is soon shattered by the Squealer’s rendition of a cat being strangled. This lasts 20 minutes until every occupant in the room is wired to pinging point. But it’s not over. Screecher and Bellower now kick off the finale leaving you wondering if in fact this is some cruel joke and Jeremy Beadle is going to pop his head round your privacy curtain any minute. Of course, once the neonatal orchestra have rested their instruments for a blessed moment’s reprieve before beginning the whole cycle again, you are just drifting off to desperate slumber when your own angel wakes and angrily screams for her nocturnal feed.
To add final insult to sleep deprived injury, those annoying mothers who seem to be able to sleep through anything (including their own baby’s wailing) kick up a beatbox of al capello snoring to accompany your lonely feed. And believe me, there is nothing worse than being awake when all you can hear is the satisfied snoring of someone enjoying the one thing you desire most in the world (wait till you get home and your husband does the same – it’s nearly grounds for divorce!). This is hell. You are straddling your catheter, too sore to move, bedsores developing from sitting too long on a hard bed, babies are screaming, people are snoring, nurses are talking, and you know that sleep is now a long lost friend you may never see again.
“Stay in hospital for the rest” people say to you before you give birth. Are they having a laugh?
Let me give you another example, and I apologise now for the - how shall I put it – ‘toilet’ talk. You are told about the three stages of labour, but every mother knows there is a fourth – the first ‘movement’ post birth. Most post-partum mums suffer from constipation and two days after my c-section I gave birth to triplets – hard poo, harder poo and excruciatingly painful poo. In fact, after both my pregnancies, I screamed more on the loo than in the labour ward! Forget packing your hospital bag with lotions and potions and frilly nighties. A family size box of All Bran should take priority over everything.
And then there’s the trapped wind. This is also extremely common, yet no book I ever read told me I could expect to be writhing in agony thinking I was having a heart attack as the bubbles danced in my rib cage and forced me to sleep sitting up for two nights.
Now, shall we talk about breastfeeding? Oh the books rightly extol its virtue as the best way to feed your beloved, and of course it is. But when they refer casually to engorgement, mastitis, and cracked nipples, they in no way prepare you for the pain. The god-awful, teeth-clenching, tears-in-your eyes pain. Let’s not even go there with the squirty boobs.
So why the hell do we do it? We do it, gladly, because the books also can’t tell you stuff that make it all bearable, the stuff that even makes you go through it all again without a second thought.
Books can’t describe the sweaty smell of a newborn’s head that inhales you into a contented coma, and lasts inside you like a magic vapour to dispel any pain and tiredness. Books can’t describe the softness of your baby’s skin against yours – so fragile, so soft, so in need of your protection. Books can’t describe the internal combustion of your heart when, a few weeks old, she gazes at you, and smiles. She connects to you and angels sing. That connection will last a lifetime. Just like no-one can prepare you for the death-defying tiredness, so no-one can prepare you for the love. Just as nothing can prepare you for the pain, the discomfort, the insanity, so nothing can prepare you for the emotion, the sense of protection and destiny, the overwhelming beauty of knowing your life has taken on new meaning and will never be the same again.
Even in the depths of despair during those lonely hours of the night, when hungry screams wake you from the dead, when a gummy gaping mouth clamps onto your sore bruised nipple making you wince in shocked pain, when the thought of trying to fumble in the dark to change your 20th rancid nappy in 12 hours nearly sends you over the edge of reason, a little hand strokes your skin, one eye pops open, a tiny head emits that addictive sweaty newborn smell that will never be forgotten, and suddenly all is right with the world.
You have begun a journey that will never end. A journey more splendid, more adventurous, more scary and challenging, more rewarding and enlightening than anything you could have imagined – or read about. No person, no book, (and no magazine article) can tell you, because it is your journey. Enjoy it. The pain will ease, the wonder will not.
Just don’t forget to pack the All Bran.
(Published in Modern Mum, Autumn 2007 issue)
(c) AKG 2007
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
What a Wonderful World!
Like most people, I could see from birth, but somehow between life and living I lost the magic of sight. I learned to see again at 36, and it was not glasses or laser surgery that renewed my vision, but the eyes of my 17 month old daughter. Now I look at the world through fresh bright eyes, I absorb the beauty of everyday things, and I have learned all over again to appreciate what a wonderful world it is.
Anyone who has ever watched and loved the Dead Poet’s Society understands the principle of standing on a table, or on top of a hill, to gain a different perspective on the world. I now realise there’s an even better view – and it’s about a foot high. One day, following the advice of one of my many baby / toddler tomes, I got down on my hands and knees to crawl around the living room at Daisy’s height to assess the potential dangers that lay in reach of curious fingers and eager mouths. It absolutely amazed me: so much furniture to climb, so many corners to investigate, so many cables, hinges, nooks and crannies. So much dust! It also felt quite daunting. Tall towering plants, giant mountainous furniture, so many tempting objects frustratingly out of reach. I then realised how much my daughter had to look up all the time, and so I decided to make a concerted effort to get down on the floor to her level as much as possible. Now I regularly become a hobbit for the afternoon, and the little people have a great view! Although it can be daunting, it is also so very exciting. Flowers in the garden tickle your face, cuddly cats stride past as big as elephants allowing you to hug them with your whole body, low wide window ledges beg to be climbed onto to watch the world go by, a jungle of shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe cry out to be waded through.
Watching my child discover all her ‘firsts’ has been a journey of discovery for us both. The first time she experienced wind on her face and tried to sweep it away with her hand, I felt just how gentle a whisper of breeze can feel. It is something we take for granted, yet it makes her giggle with delight. The first time she saw snow, her face wide in amazement and confusion, I took fresh delight in tracing my hands through it and tasting its icy goodness on my tongue. We took time out from the bustle and rush of going somewhere and stood in the garden eating snow and it felt so good. The first time she saw the ducks in the park, wide-eyed and excited, I quacked till I was hoarse and we laughed at their sheer silliness. I’m 37 and now I quack at least once a week – it’s so good for the soul! The first time she stepped in a puddle, confused by the moving ground, she looked at me for reassurance. For 25 years I had avoided puddles, too grown up to wet my feet. But that day I stamped in a long lost memory and rediscovered its delight all over again. We stamped all the way to the shops and it just didn’t matter that our feet got wet. And it wasn’t just with my eyes I found new adventure. Eating her first strawberry, I tasted the sweet red berry anew. Those first delicious drops of ice-cream – how heavenly for us both! Eating wibbly wobbly jelly with our hands – can there be more fun?
But as with all new discoveries, lessons have to be learnt. Those beautiful bright blue eyes are so innocent and naive and although I wish she could hold on to that wonderful world forever, I know I have to show her that it may not always be so. At the moment, every dog she sees is a big cuddly pal like Harry next door, who wants to lick her upturned face and let her pull his tail. I somehow have to teach her to be cautious without dissipating her delight in animals because I know not every dog will be as patient as Harry. In every new person that says hello or comes to the door, she sees a new friend to give and get hugs from, whose hand she will happily take to play in her wonderful world. At some point though, I will have to teach her to distinguish friend from stranger, because I know not all strangers are friends.
I need to teach her that sometimes the world isn’t so wonderful – wasps, nettles, deep water, cars, strangers and I dread seeing the bright light in her eyes diminish just a fraction. I will have to teach my fearless enthusiast caution and calm and it breaks my heart. It is just so hard. How can I pull her away from the toilet telling her it’s ‘dirty’ when she takes such squealing pleasure from the rush of flushing water? Yet I must. How can I tell her not to put the daffodil head in her mouth and eat it when they must just look so enticing? Yet I must. How can I be stern and cross and tell her not to pull the cat’s tail, when he rolls in front of her flicking it tantalisingly in her face? Yet I must. Not all toilets are as clean as ours. Not all plants are safe to eat. One day the cat just might fight back. With every new adventure we must both learn the delights and dangers. So I guess, as with everything in parenthood, it’s all about balance. I want her to keep teaching me how wonderful the world is as we explore its array of miracles and beauty every day, and I want her to learn from me how to be safe, and kind and respectful.
And I suppose that is how it should be – we will teach each other, my child and I, and between us our world will be a better place.
(Published in Modern Mum, Summer 2007 issue)
(c) AKG 2008
Anyone who has ever watched and loved the Dead Poet’s Society understands the principle of standing on a table, or on top of a hill, to gain a different perspective on the world. I now realise there’s an even better view – and it’s about a foot high. One day, following the advice of one of my many baby / toddler tomes, I got down on my hands and knees to crawl around the living room at Daisy’s height to assess the potential dangers that lay in reach of curious fingers and eager mouths. It absolutely amazed me: so much furniture to climb, so many corners to investigate, so many cables, hinges, nooks and crannies. So much dust! It also felt quite daunting. Tall towering plants, giant mountainous furniture, so many tempting objects frustratingly out of reach. I then realised how much my daughter had to look up all the time, and so I decided to make a concerted effort to get down on the floor to her level as much as possible. Now I regularly become a hobbit for the afternoon, and the little people have a great view! Although it can be daunting, it is also so very exciting. Flowers in the garden tickle your face, cuddly cats stride past as big as elephants allowing you to hug them with your whole body, low wide window ledges beg to be climbed onto to watch the world go by, a jungle of shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe cry out to be waded through.
Watching my child discover all her ‘firsts’ has been a journey of discovery for us both. The first time she experienced wind on her face and tried to sweep it away with her hand, I felt just how gentle a whisper of breeze can feel. It is something we take for granted, yet it makes her giggle with delight. The first time she saw snow, her face wide in amazement and confusion, I took fresh delight in tracing my hands through it and tasting its icy goodness on my tongue. We took time out from the bustle and rush of going somewhere and stood in the garden eating snow and it felt so good. The first time she saw the ducks in the park, wide-eyed and excited, I quacked till I was hoarse and we laughed at their sheer silliness. I’m 37 and now I quack at least once a week – it’s so good for the soul! The first time she stepped in a puddle, confused by the moving ground, she looked at me for reassurance. For 25 years I had avoided puddles, too grown up to wet my feet. But that day I stamped in a long lost memory and rediscovered its delight all over again. We stamped all the way to the shops and it just didn’t matter that our feet got wet. And it wasn’t just with my eyes I found new adventure. Eating her first strawberry, I tasted the sweet red berry anew. Those first delicious drops of ice-cream – how heavenly for us both! Eating wibbly wobbly jelly with our hands – can there be more fun?
But as with all new discoveries, lessons have to be learnt. Those beautiful bright blue eyes are so innocent and naive and although I wish she could hold on to that wonderful world forever, I know I have to show her that it may not always be so. At the moment, every dog she sees is a big cuddly pal like Harry next door, who wants to lick her upturned face and let her pull his tail. I somehow have to teach her to be cautious without dissipating her delight in animals because I know not every dog will be as patient as Harry. In every new person that says hello or comes to the door, she sees a new friend to give and get hugs from, whose hand she will happily take to play in her wonderful world. At some point though, I will have to teach her to distinguish friend from stranger, because I know not all strangers are friends.
I need to teach her that sometimes the world isn’t so wonderful – wasps, nettles, deep water, cars, strangers and I dread seeing the bright light in her eyes diminish just a fraction. I will have to teach my fearless enthusiast caution and calm and it breaks my heart. It is just so hard. How can I pull her away from the toilet telling her it’s ‘dirty’ when she takes such squealing pleasure from the rush of flushing water? Yet I must. How can I tell her not to put the daffodil head in her mouth and eat it when they must just look so enticing? Yet I must. How can I be stern and cross and tell her not to pull the cat’s tail, when he rolls in front of her flicking it tantalisingly in her face? Yet I must. Not all toilets are as clean as ours. Not all plants are safe to eat. One day the cat just might fight back. With every new adventure we must both learn the delights and dangers. So I guess, as with everything in parenthood, it’s all about balance. I want her to keep teaching me how wonderful the world is as we explore its array of miracles and beauty every day, and I want her to learn from me how to be safe, and kind and respectful.
And I suppose that is how it should be – we will teach each other, my child and I, and between us our world will be a better place.
(Published in Modern Mum, Summer 2007 issue)
(c) AKG 2008
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