Forgotten: A Monologue

Hello? Helloooooooooo? Down here. Yes, hello. It’s me! Can’t you see my bowl is empty? Why are you cursing at me? I have to get underfoot just to get your attention these days. Only a few months ago, when you were fat and home all the time, we were best friends. We were always together. We snuggled in bed together, read recipe books, chatted endlessly for hours. Now, I don’t exist. Forgotten. No food and not so much as a pat.

And that thing. His pathetic cries assault my precious ears. He stinks, and he’s always with you. He has taken over my house, and you don’t even let me near you when you’re with him. I wouldn’t touch him to scratch him.

When did it all change? Why did you have to go and destroy the happy, quiet, predictable world we had all created?

I don’t need you, really. I much prefer the man now anyway. He keeps the place warm and shares his ham in the mornings. But I could easily just walk away. There are plenty of other warm places around here, and probably some hapless old lady who would feed me something delicious. I never asked to be picked up from that shelter. I was holding my own. I was getting by. I didn’t need a family, to make attachments, to rely on anyone or anything. I am a natural born killer. I am not a fluffy cuddle toy.

What’s that sound? Oh, wait! I take it all back. The tasty sound of a can being opened, music to my ears! Tuna today? I love you, I love you, you’re wonderful!

I still don’t like that thing though.

Breastfeeding: What They Don't Tell You.

What 'they' don't tell you. It's freaking hard. It doesn't come naturally (for most of us). It takes a few days to come in and you get manhandled until it does.

Let me elaborate.

I wrote an earlier post about my birth experience and having suffered a post partum haemorrhage, which required me to receive 4 units of blood. Not only was my body recovering from the shock of giving birth, it was battling to recover from a serious loss of blood. It was explained to me that it normally takes a couple of days for the milk to come through (until then, babies are getting almost nothing out of all the suckling they're doing, and they lose weight) which is quite a ridiculous human idiosyncrasy, if you ask me. The poor little things. Anyway, by day three my milk still hadn't come in and this was concerning the midwives. So they began hand expressing me, which means being squeezed and massaged (but not in a good way) after each 'feed', and I felt like they were being manhandled twenty-four-seven. By the third day, after 5 days in hospital, I was desperate to go home. Finally in the evening my milk came through and I packed my bags and headed home.

I understand why a lot of women give up on breastfeeding. I struggled for 2 weeks to establish a good feeding relationship with my baby, even though he was extremely responsive and latched from day one. Your nipples have to harden up, and until then, feeding is quite uncomfortable. Goo latched a little incorrectly on one side and I had to deal with that pain. You have to get the latch right, and the midwives can show you a million times but you have to work it out for yourself (after all, it's your body).

Two weeks in, I developed dermatitis on my nipples which was incorrectly diagnosed as mastitis (I know, how could that possibly be? A Doctor on emergency duty who was not wanting to be there), given a course of antibiotics and sent on my way. But the antibiotics did nothing. It was so painful to feed (more painful than childbirth, and that's saying something) that I had to express and then feed him. By chance, I was seeing the maternal and child health nurse that day and she took one look and knew it was dermatitis. Back to the doctors, sent home with a cortisone cream. The next day, I felt like a new woman.

Now, it's easy. I wouldn't go so far as to say it was pleasant, but it certainly feels normal. I don't love being tied down to feeding every couple of hours, and I detest feeding in public (only because I am an incredibly private person). My partner uses it as an excuse to not comfort the baby ("he needs boob") which bottle feeding Dads can't use. But I wouldn't change it. I am so glad that I persevered.

Here is the thing: they tell you childbirth is incredibly painful. They tell you having a newborn is hard beyond belief. But everyone tells you that breastfeeding is natural, and pleasant. It is not. 

It's hard yakka, it doesn't feel natural at all to start with and it's painful even if the baby is latching on, because your body has never felt anything like it. It takes weeks to get on track.

I honestly believe there would be a lot less formula babies out there if the truth were known. We would have the belief in ourselves that we can overcome, and as women, of course we do!

The Brink. A Scary Place.

Children. They have the ability to push you to the brink of a nervous breakdown and promptly snap you right back to reality. Just when you're about to plop them in the cot and then run into the woods never to be seen again, they look at you with a gummy smile and you realise you have to push on, one foot in front of the other.

Right up until Wednesday midday, I had reached the point of a breakdown. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in over a month. I was feeling drab, bland, overweight and worthless. Nothing seemed to be going my way. I had lost complete and utter control and could not see a way through. I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't like the brunette staring back. Lifeless. In a haste I rushed to Priceline and purchased a home dye kit. You can imagine what happened next. 

Two hours later, a bright orange clown stared back. Correction, a half blonde, half orange clown stared back. I lost it, burst into tears whilst my baby slept. I was hosting mother's group the next day and I had to head back to my mountain home. I stopped at a French bakery for some maracons and panier in the morning. $50 later, my heart sinking after parting with so much cash due to lack of foreplanning, I hit the road.

I got home and stared at myself in the mirror. How can I go to a hairdresser in my small town? I will be judged and talked about, the crazy lady that dyed her hair orange when she lost her mind. How can I go to a salon with a baby? Paralyzed, my baby crying in the other room. I. Can't. Do. This. Anymore. HELP.

I went back in and picked up my baby. He smiled at me, he looked adoringly, so relieved that I had come back. OK, I can do this. 

I called a salon, and they booked me in the next day. Bring the baby, they said. I had to work through it. My partner was reassuringly calm. He told me to get my hair done whenever I wanted, forget about the cost, if it made you feel good. The girls arrived for mother's group. We discussed our feelings, all of us at some point had felt they were sprialling out of control. That they couldn't do it, the depression and feeling like having a baby was a mistake. It was so cathartic. My good friend whom I had known before we had kids gave me the firmest, most reassuring hug. 

The next day, I went to the salon. Oh, it was a nightmare. Whenever I wasn't looking at my baby, he cried. I am sure I upset all the other customers. The apprentice had to go and take him for a walk. 

I am back from the brink. My house is a filthy mess, and I still rummage around my closet for clothes that don't make me look like a leg of ham in strung in a fishnet. There is still a bit of orange in my hair. 

But I made it through.

The Self Improvement Project

If you see me walking down the street looking like a right minger, think not that I have let myself go. No, rather, I am in the midst of what I like to call the "Self Improvement Project".

One of the elements of this project is growing out my dyed blonde hair to its natural colour. Bear in mind that I have not had natural hair since about the age of 12. I've been every colour imaginable, from blonde to red to brown to black. I'm tired of colouring it, and these days I don't have the time nor can justify the cost of being blonde. Ah, my carefree 20s are coming to a close. Anyway, I am taking progress shots to show myself how far I've come and to help motivate myself when I look in the mirror and feel like nothing's happening... I encourage all of you to keep moving forward, and resist the easy trap of standing still. My comfort zones are far too comfortable.

  January. The last time I coloured my hair:

 Also 6 months pregnant. The glow! The good skin! The lustrous hair!

Now: August, 6 months later

It is taking everything I have to walk around like this in public. Naturally, I have become quite the homebody, luckily I have a baby as an excuse...