Sew. A Needle Pulling Thread.

I have been itching to write lately, but the cursor has been flashing endlessly on an empty white screen, mocking me and my lack of... creative flow.

As I've mentioned before, I am fairly reclusive but my partner keeps telling me to get out of the house (which I don't necessarily disagree with, but with a five month old can be quite difficult). So I have been saying yes to everything, trying new things and seeing what this little pocket of Victoria has to offer.

I went skiing for a day with a friend I have known BC and who happens to be in my mother's group. Her parents are managing a lodge on the mountain so they were happy to babysit our kids for a couple of hours whilst we went out on what was an absolutely glorious 'bluebird' day. Unfortunately my legs struggled a bit towards the end of the second hour. The upshot though is that my boy was an absolute angel and didn't miss me one bit! It's great to know this as I will feel a little better about putting him into care, when the time comes (and it's coming a little too rapidly).

A baby free ski. Magic.

Another fantastic discovery has been that I have been introduced to and joined a 'sewing group' with a bunch of excellent and worldly women. I know, I know, a sewing group, it totally conflicts with my badass image right?! Truth be told, I have always wanted to sew and be decent enough at it to make things - cushions, quilts, customise clothing - I am not planning to make my own clothes by any stretch, but just to be able to have things exactly the way I envision them rather than search endlessly to find it, and it also fulfils a certain creative outlet I am desperately needing (though I should be putting more energy into writing!!)

 Yep, I raided the local variety store to create my very first non-hotel-issue sewing kit!

This group happens weekly and I am really happy to have discovered it. I do enjoy my mother's group most of the time, but I love the idea with combining chat with sharing ideas and learning something new.

I'll step back a bit, because before I give the impression that I am working on the next great American (Australian?) Quilt... so far I have managed to hand mend a pair of leggings and half start a broken fly on a pair of jeans. 

I have a tyrannical five month old, remember? I sew when he lets me!

I am definitely embracing this new world though and I already can't wait to get to Melbourne next to check out the fabric stores... 

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...

Goal Posts: Here. No, Here. NO, HERE.

The title says it all right now when it comes to my son. He is being terribly maniacal when it comes to sleep patterns. One night, he'll wake up every three hours, the next, sleep for seven then wake up every hour, the next, he'll wake up after four hours, then two, then six... and on and on.

This is leaving me terribly tired and unrested. My body used to anticipate his waking times - pretty consistent for the first 3 months of his life, and now, it's all over the shop, and I wake up with a start, and I can't go back to sleep.

Having said all of this, it doesn't not seem to bother him one bit. It actually seems to make him a happier baby during the day. So I take the good with the bad. I know one day I will be able to sleep again, because teenagers sleep all the time. Good. Only 12 years and 8 months to go.

Other mothers baulk at me when I tell them I don't have a routine. I let him feed when he wants, sleep when he wants, I let him lead me, which I find works pretty well given I travel a bit and sleep in different places fairly regularly. I could only envision myself struggling with taking him to my parents for a weekend if he was in a strict routine of sleep/eat/play.

Does this make sense to you? Are you strict with routine? Does it hinder you when you do things like travel, or do you lock yourself at home for the first year or so? I'd be so interested to hear your thoughts on this one...

A Shot in the Arm from Oscar Wilde

Has it really been 2 weeks since my last post? Where does the time go? And, how is it I am still on the same book?

A friend who had a baby 3 weeks ago posted on Facebook that she was thrilled to have finally finsished watching the one hour program she'd been watching in increments for the past three days. It's like that. Most people, including those with older children, seem to have no idea or forget how absorbing it is to care for an infant, the indescribable feeling of being adrift from the world, and the dread attached to just going out for coffee. At the moment I am really only seeing other mums with newborns for this reason. Yes I feel guilty for basically ignoring everyone else...

Ah, guilt. It is the biggest factor retarding my personal growth at the moment. I have a lot on the go right now. I am planning a (albeit tiny, backyard) wedding, anticipating a visit from my partner's parents who are visiting for the first time from France (this is a big deal, my partner has been here for 10 years), and organising to go to night school next year with deadline of new year's day to move house. I'm not talking about to the next town. We're going interstate. We're moving from a compact but spacious ski shack to a crammed shoebox in the city - all for my professional progress. I'm not sure I can handle the pressure, but I have to try.

Can I do it? Can I juggle night school, part time work, daycare, parenting, relationship? I have no idea how hard it will be. Right now, here in the countryside my life is so easy. I would have to go to work, but only part time. We have tiny debt. We worry about money but have no trouble paying bills. I am going to turn all that on its head for my own selfish cause. Will I be overcome with guilt for putting my son into daycare, robbing him (at least temporarily) of an idyllic country lifestyle?

I don't want to end up a broken person, settling for less that what I know my potential is. I am going to put this quote into bold print so I don't ignore it:

"To live is the rarest thing in the world.

 Most people exist, that is all" 

Oscar Wilde.

It's true, most people take the easy road. Things may not go to plan. If I don't put myself first, I can't take care of anyone else. And this doesn't mean I don't love my family any less. The struggle we may have in the near future won't be nearly as bad as the struggle of my own disappointment for never having tried. Hold your breath and jump...

(I love this picture of Wilde. People aren't eccentric enough anymore. I reckon one should have a statement piece of clothing that makes them instantly recognisable, a la Matt Preston).