love | Sleep is for the Weak

Just when I thought I was going to lose my mind…

Posted by Josie on Nov 30, 2009 in Uncategorized | 20 comments

Ten ways in which the Universe was kind to me today:

1. Not only did Kai only wake up ONCE last night, he slept in until, wait for it, 8am!!!!! I got up before him, got dressed, made a cuppa. It was quite possibly the best morning of my life.

2. All that sleep meant Kai was in a KILLER mood. We laughed, we nearly wee’d ourselves with excitement riding the bus, we only had a handful of minor meltdowns at Playgroup and Kai made friends with a small girl with pretty hair. Toast was eaten, toys were shared. It was legendary.

3. When we got home Kai sat happily and drunk half a cup of moo moo milk (as opposed to mama milk). This is only the second time I’ve got him to drink any with out screaming and throwing it at me. If you were in the Midlands area and heard a Ahhhh sound that would have been my boobs sighing with relief. We’re down to two feeds in 24 hours people! TWO!

4. In one of those adorable toddler moments, every sip of Kai’s milk was accompanied by a “mmmm!”, a lip smack and a big grin. I’ve been giving him milk everyday and encouraging him to drink it with lots of “yum yum” and “ooh delicious!” – looks like he’s cottoned on the fact that moo moo milk = gooooood.

5. After drinking said milk we read a story (about diggers obviously), we drew the curtains and Kai lay down in his cot and went to sleep. Just like that. That is the first nap time without tears in about a fortnight.

6. While Kai was asleep I made two cups of tea. I’m not sure who the other one was for but I drank them both. With biscuits. I may make two cups more often.

7. The powers-that-be have decided to dig up a car park in the town centre. That means DIGGERS people. Diggers for probably all this week. This afternoon Kai spent 20 ecstatic minutes watching those diggers, who happened to be driven by friendly digger men who were happy to flash their lights and spin the diggers round and drop things from high up to make a better crash all for my rapt little boy. We will be back.

8. Instead of screaming all the way home, Kai sang. Loudly. It made everyone we walked past smile – not frown and look alarmed at the thrashing hysterical toddler that has been the norm for the last week or two.

9. We got back and Kai SAT. And gave me kisses, and giggled at me talking to him in a funny voice, and played with his cars beautifully till his Dad got home. I remembered how much I love him and decided I might not run way to New Zealand after all.

10. Bed time went without a whimper. Kai chose his fire engine book, we sniggered at the instruction to “feel the Fireman’s hard helmet”, and then we said “Night Night” and he lay down and went to sleep. Again.

Thank you Universe. Now why can’t everyday be like this??!

Not what I thought

Posted by Josie on Oct 7, 2009 in Uncategorized | 37 comments

Postscript: 19th October 2009

It’s been a couple of weeks since I wrote this post and I still can’t quite get over the incredible and supportive comments left in response. I didn’t think before writing this – just poured it out and then had to summon up all my courage to hit the ‘publish’ button. Thank you so much.

My friend Scary Mommy is running a ‘Search for a Scary Mommy’ contest:

What is a Scary Mommy, you ask? I believe a Scary Mommy is a mother who doesn’t leave the house wearing lipstick at all times. A Scary Mommy loves her kids to death, but will admit to feeling totally overwhelmed and exhausted by the gig. A Scary Mommy doesn’t really care what other people think, and a Scary Mommy thinks that all mothers win when we admit our weaknesses.

I think this is my Scary Mommy post.

I hope you who are reading it for the first time can relate to it – seems like a lot of my regular readers could. And hearing that “yeah me too” made me feel more ok with myself than I had done for a long time.

Thank you for listening x

——————————————————

Before I had children I had an assumption about how it would go, how I would feel.

I would love them. I would love them totally, utterly, unconditionally. My patience would know no bounds, my selflessness would be instinctual and ungrudging. This magical connection would happen instantaneously the second I clapped my eyes on them and it would last a lifetime. No challenge would be too big, no detail of their lives would be too small or go unappreciated.

I never knew it would feel like THIS.

I read a post by a fellow blogger recently that made me cry. The lovely Insomniac Mummy wrote a beautiful piece about the love she feels for her son, describing unconditional love and the many perfect intimate moments between the two of them. It was the kind of love that I had dreamed about having with my child.

But it made me cry because I found it hard to relate to the way she felt, the feelings she described.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love Kai. Oh god do I love that boy. In fact I completely under estimated just how much I would love him – it has knocked me sideways these last 15 months. It is almost painful the deep love I feel for him; that tangible connection I feel to him; that sense that he is mine; as much part of me as my own head and as essential and fundamental to my existence as breathing.

And yet it is not a fairytale love. At times it is dark, it is agonising, it unravels me and balls me back up again over and over, every minute of every day. It has changed me, and continues to change me. Challenging the very nature of who I thought I was. For although I feel that deep sense of connection, that feeling of ‘knowing’ him so completely, at the same time he sometimes feels like a distant, unreachable, unknowable mystery that I will never fathom. He is separate to me in a way that is isolating and confusing.

I don’t know how to be a good mother to Kai. That is the truth of the matter. Since the very first day he was born he has pushed the limits of my patience, tolerance and empathy, descending on our lives with the force of a unstoppable hurricane, turning our heads and our hearts upside down. His needs have always been so intense, so uncompromising. My whirling ball of energy and curiosity, forward motion and fierce independence, uniquely co-existing with a fundamental dependence and need for closeness, contact and comfort that I never could have imagined.

Sometimes it is so easy to love him, with his infectious smile and spark that has everyone around him glowing. His affectionate, attentive nature, constantly surprising and delighting us with the strength of his personality; his dogged refusal to be anything but himself.

But at other times it is not so easy. The battles and the refusal to compromise, expressed through tears and screams and bites and flails and fights. The unrelenting neediness and constant demand. These are the times where my love for him is tested, where my worth and suitability as a mother is brought to bear.

I feel I fall short in these moments. I try, god only knows I try and I push through it, but dealing with the inevitable feelings of anger, impatience, frustration and failure are some of the hardest tests of character I have ever had to face.

And yet…

And yet. There are moments of stillness. Moments of tired heads rested on laps, of soft hair and soft cheeks. Of little hands that seek out and grasp my own, holding on with a tenderness and a pure need that melts my pain away. Of intimate smiles and tender kisses, of foreheads that fit with perfect synergy into the nape of my neck and I know that there is no where, no when I would rather be, or am meant to be. Right here, right now; holding desperately on to this boy I love so much and wish I knew how to mother.

I wouldn’t change him. Not one tantrum or one sleepiness night. I honestly wouldn’t. He is perfect in his imperfection, in his complexity. He fills me with both awe and bafflement and pride in equal measure. And the fact that I get to be the one to watch him grow and mature and learn and develop feels like a privilege and a gift I would never pass over.

So no. I do not have a fairytale love for my boy. I cannot hold up as a bright example as do some mothers that I so admire seem to able to do with so much integrity and conviction. But it is unconditional. If only because I fight so hard to make it so, because I refuse to let it be any other way, however much it tries to pull me off course. It does not come easily. But it does come – I hope that is enough.

The eloquent Nobel Savage tells me it gets easier. She too faced dark places in her journey with her girl and she’s stepping blinking through the tunnel and out the other side.

I hope so.

But in the meantime I am happy to be here. Happy to be on this adventure with my beautiful, perfect little monster.

I really am.

Now and Then – Part 2

Posted by Josie on Jul 9, 2009 in Uncategorized | 4 comments

So where was I? Oh yes, my contractions had stopped and started again. I had lost all hope of EVER having the baby and was sobbing for my mum, whilst simultaneously, in the future, I was sat eating Orios and watching something crappy on tv, while trying to ignore the incessant whining noise at my feet (i.e. the baby that, surprise surprise, DID come out in the end). So on we plod…

————————————————————-

July 7th 6pm

Flashback: After pouring my heart out to my mum over the phone we decide to up camp and head off to chez Whitney-Cooper for some much needed TLC and a bath as ours is gnome sized and rather uncomfortable for those that are dimensionally challenged. We throw the labour bag in the boot just in case but I am seriously beginning to doubt that this baby will EVER be born. I’m serious. Maybe I just haven’t got it in me? Maybe my body just doesn’t know what to do and I’l be pregnant FOREVER? Ok, at least until they induce me/slice me open, neither of which I particularly fancy. Or worse – maybe I’ll just carry on having these (increasingly painful) contractions every five minutes for days and days and no-one will do ANYTHING?! (except tell me to have an early night and take some paracetamol).

We arrive at mum’s and I instantly feel a bit better. Mum runs me a bath, lights some candles, makes me a cup of tea and I have a long soak. I have to keep shifting position when a contraction comes though as lying on my back when one comes seems to amplify the pain by about a million. Ant sits on the loo and makes me laugh despite the pain and suddenly the world is all ok again. Did I ever mention I was a bit changeable in the mood department?

We make a deal. No more timing contractions. Well, me anyway. I had religiously recorded every one; doing nothing short of making a graph to plot their regularity (or lack of it). Time to relax a bit Josie. Time to recognise that maybe YOU’RE NOT IN CONTROL THIS TIME. I know. Shocker. And you never know maybe removing the giant stick up your butt might make room for the baby. Ant will surreptitiously keep track, but me, well I was just going to concentrate on riding this pain.

Because bloody hell. It’s hurting now. Hurting too much to stay in the bath. Hurting too much to do ANYTHING in fact although it’s becoming more and more difficult to keep still through out it all. I have an overwhelming urge to walk and change position and grind my hips in a kind of weird pregnant lady hula. Do you know what, I think I WILL have some paracetamol now…

So I walk, and lean, and contract, and do the hula. Shouting out “here comes another one” just as Ant mutters under his breath “any second now…”.

Is it just me or are they getting closer together?

Flashforward: I wipe up Kai after his tea. He has some pasta in his belly button (and, incidently on his hair/ears/neck/dad/cat – it was pasta bolognaise so our front room looked like something out of Saw 3) and it occurs to me… this is where he was attached to me. For nine whole months. And my belly button; that is where I was attached to MY mum. And so on, down the centuries in one glorious genetic chain of belly buttons. Every one before me a mother, everyone before me going through that same terrifying and wonderful experience of giving birth to another human being. Wow. I feel kind of special. I also can’t believe I’m having profound thoughts about belly buttons…

9.00pm

Flashback: Everything’s getting a bit blurry now. Pain seems to dance in front of my eyes and I realise I’m beginning to pant and groan more and more. My pacing and my hula hula dance is becoming more vigorous and rhythmic as I ride each new wave. Where on earth is that mooing noise coming from? Oh wait, it’s me.

I’m vaguely aware of mum and Ant whispering in the kitchen and periodically poking their head round the corner to ask if I’m doing ok. “I’m fine” I keep saying. “Stop talking to me” is what I’m thinking, just let me walk and moo in peace. At some point, they come to me and tell me that my contractions have been every four minutes for a while – maybe we should phone the hospital now? I nod and a quick phone call later and Ant is steering me into the car.

Time to go.

Flashforward: Kai is asleep for now and I sit surveying the twenty miscellaneous pieces of plastic and metal that should, with proper assembly (BY AN ADULT stresses the instructions – thanks for that) turn into Kai’s birthday Tricycle. I screw bits together, unscrew them again and turn them round, and screw them back together again.

At least making a baby didn’t require self assembly and an allen key. I have a feeling Kai wouldn’t have been half so well put together.

9.45pm

Flashback: We arrive at the hospital. Four minutes had turned into every three in the car (why why WHY did you have to live on a private estate with SPEEDBUMPS mother??! Did you not know that your heavily pregnant daughter would be contracting over every single one??). We park in a ‘do not park here’ zone and display my pre-prepared “Wife is in Labour” sign (no, I know what you’re thinking – it didn’t have an accompanying drawing or was laminated, I’m not THAT bad…).

The walk up to the ward seems to go on for miles but I’m determined to walk it. Stopping, SITTING, seems unthinkable. I just have to move move move. Finally we’re there. A bored looking midwife shows me into my room. MY room. The room on the midwife-led unit I had been so adamant to have, with it’s homely decorating and bean bags and Anne Geddes’ pictures on the wall. The room that I didn’t give two hoots about once I finally got there. It could have been a dingy back alley in the East End for all I cared as long as it had some gas and air.

At last some pain relief!!! Oh sweet Jesus thank you! ”You make yourself comfy dear” she tells me, “You’ve got a while to go yet”. Great.

Ant contemplates going back to the car for the bags but the midwife has disappeared and he doesn’t want to leave me, and pretty soon they’re forgotten. Relegated to the boot, my refreshing face spray and the rest about as useful in the end as that paracetamol I’d taken an hour ago.

The midwife finally arrives to examine me and to her surprise, and mine, I’m 8cm dilated. She tells me I’m nearly there but I don’t really hear her. I’m away on my gas trip. The room fades away and all that is left is my teeth on that cold, hard mouthpiece and the sound of mask as I breathe in and out, timing my gasps to take the edge off the peak of the contractions, coming fast and strong. I’m aware of Ant’s constant, calm reassurance, holding me through everyone but everything else just becomes a jumble of vague sound and light. I don’t think I’m even particularly conscious of the fact that my baby is coming. There is only this pain. This moment. All I can do is hold on.

Flashforward: I’m STILL building that frickin trike…

11.30pm

Flashback: At least I think it’s about that time, I’m having to rely on others’ memories now. I am pushing. The pressure has built to peak and now I’m pushing and pushing. My waters have finally popped with one huge gush. I moan and cry and shout and I don’t care. Even when that stupid cow of a midwife tells me I’m making too much noise I don’t care. Shut up b*tch I’m having a baby for Frick’s sake – just do your job and I’ll do mine. After an eternity I begin to feel something slowly move down and push hard against me with each contraction, and finally, Kai’s head begins to crown. It is physically and mentally the most unbelievably hard thing I have ever done. What on earth was I thinking? Having a baby? Was I MAD? “I’m NEVER doing this again” I cry vehemently between contractions. Gas and Air is forgotten now, I need every bit of my concentration just to bear down and push. PUSH! With every contraction I push and push some more. Push so hard I think my back will break and my eyes pop out. Weirdly it’s not pain I’m conscious of. Just the sheer effort and physical endurance with the hot, burning feeling that only a 7 and a half pound babies head forcing it’s way through a MUCH smaller opening can produce. “Push!” Ant and the Midwife kept telling me “PUSH! You’re nearly there!”

Flashforward: I sit holding the small, hot form of my sleeping child. My head pounding and my body about ready to drop after nearly an hour of trying to get Kai back to sleep after his inevitable wake-up. Once again it is a mystery why he has woken up. Once again it is a mystery why he has so much trouble falling back to sleep again. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long year. A year of delight and joy and fun and laughter and more love and happiness than I ever thought possible. But also a year of incredible anxiety, and stress and frustration and sheer physical effort coupled with unbelievably little sleep.

The labour was the easy part, in hindsight.

But no matter what I said, I WOULD do it all again. A million times over for just one touch of my beautiful, precious boy. And not just the labour. Every broken night, every hour spent walking and rocking and feeding and coaxing Kai into some kind of sleep. Every minute of despair and hopelessness and doubt. I’d do it all. Naked. Covered in Bees (if only because it all seems to have gotten rather serious all of a sudden).

Because he is totally, irrefutably, worth it.

I gently lower him into his cot. He sighs and rolls over but thankfully is soon sleeping deeply again. Thank god for that.

July 8th 12.10am

Flashback: With one last almighty PUSH! I finally feel a release as Kai’s head comes out, pushing out the shoulders, and finally, with one long, glorious, blissful gush, the rest of him. He is lifted, red and crying and slippery and the most beautiful perfect sight I have ever seen, straight on to my chest where I hold him close and sob and laugh, looking up at Ant in relief and joy and surprise. My boy is here. My Kai.

I did it.

Flashforward: I roll over, away from the clock at which I have been staring, waiting, remembering. I listen to Kai’s breathing, slow and deep and peaceful. I close my eyes.

Happy Birthday Little Bear x